


Maybe: Greg

by van1lla_v1lla1n



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Bisexual Tom Wambsgans, Boss/Employee Relationship, Chapter 9:, Coffee shop au? kind of, Emotional Repression, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Gratuitous Smut, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Infidelity, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Praise Kink, Recreational Drug Use, roughly season 1 adjacent but with some timeline fuckery and other divergences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:54:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28089612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/van1lla_v1lla1n/pseuds/van1lla_v1lla1n
Summary: Greg turned one of the coffee cups on his desk, considering. Maybe it was time to let go of his crush. But he hadn’t even really tried to do anything with it, was the thing. He’d just been half hoping Tom would read his body language and figure out how he felt, and acknowledge it, and then either accept it or turn it down.But maybe Greg would have to make the move.And that’s how he ended up writing his phone number on Tom’s coffee cup, sliding the paper sleeve back up over it, and setting the cup on the corner of Tom’s desk just the same as he did every afternoon.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans, Siobhan "Shiv" Roy/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 162
Kudos: 74





	1. the coffee cup

**Author's Note:**

> chapter count and rating may change slightly :)

Greg sat down at his desk with two cups from the coffee shop, Tom’s latte and his own vanilla steamed milk. The steamed milk was a luxury, totally unnecessary, but he didn’t need caffeine at two in the afternoon and he’d put the drinks on Tom’s card anyway, so it didn’t matter that he’d paid five dollars for what basically amounted to a glass of hot sugar milk.

He needed the nutrients anyway—he didn’t know if he could get away with putting a whole meal on Tom’s card, but the steamed milk had so far slipped notice, and wasn’t milk what they told everybody to drink during, like, the Depression?

He’d been at Waystar for a few months now, as Tom’s assistant, and he felt like he was just starting to get his feet (now appropriately shod, thanks to Tom) under him. It had been awkward at first, getting used to Tom’s jokey ribbing that bordered on flirting; he was like a bitchy, insecure eleven-year-old with a crush. Except the crush was on someone else, probably, and he just took it out on Greg.

After spending those first few months pining after his handsome boss in abject he-likes-me-no-he-doesn’t confusion, Greg had decided he’d be better off assuming the his affections were unrequited. Tom was dating Greg’s cousin, after all, and it was probably against company policy to get involved with your direct superior.

Still, even though he knew perhaps intellectually that he should try to chill out about Tom, the rest of him hadn’t quite gotten the memo. Even when Tom was a prick, he had a particular brand of prickishness he saved especially for Greg. Sometimes it felt like abuse, to be, in Tom’s own words, Tom’s punching bag, but Greg craved that attention, craved the backward praise Tom sometimes surprised both of them with. Maybe Greg was fucked up for that, but maybe it was a symptom of his genetics—the Roy affinity for caustic relationships mixed with the Hirsch need for a kind of affection you weren’t sure you deserved.

“You’re family,” Tom had said to him when he handed him the folder of incriminating Cruises documents. It was higher affection, more respect than his own blood had ever shown him. Greg still wasn’t sure if Tom actually had the right to offer him that affirmation, but the acceptance felt nice all the same. And Tom had leaned in so close when he said it, close enough that Greg could have traced the scar above his lip, which filled out so pretty while he was waiting for an answer, his mouth slightly open.

The real kicker for Greg was that Tom often seemed so lonely, so afraid, as much as he tried to hide it under a veneer of smooth-dressed confidence. Greg saw his own ambition in Tom, saw someone who could help him live up to his potential. But in Tom it was coupled with an air of insecurity, almost anti-entitlement, like even if he kissed all the right asses in just the right way, he still wouldn’t quite fit.

But Greg had learned so much from Tom about how to act, how to dress, how to exist on this vicious, tottering corporate ladder. _He_ thought Tom deserved to be there, even if Tom were a dick sometimes, even if weird shit seemed to spew out of his mouth before he’d given himself a moment to think it through. He just wished he could help his cousins see that; he wished he could help Tom see that.

Greg turned one of the cups on his desk, considering. Maybe it was time to let go of his crush. But he hadn’t even really tried to do anything with it, was the thing. He’d just been half hoping Tom would read his body language and figure out how he felt, and acknowledge it, and then either accept it or turn it down. He’d been hoping Tom would be the one to make it explicit. But that wasn’t looking likely.

Maybe Greg would have to make the move.

And that’s how he ended up writing his phone number on Tom’s coffee cup, sliding the paper sleeve back up over it, and setting the cup on the corner of Tom’s desk just the same as he did every afternoon.

* * *

Greg pretended not to see Tom approaching from his office, pretended to look up in surprise when Tom peeked into his cubicle, and said, “Hey, ah, Greg? Who was the barista at the coffeeshop today?”

“Uh . . . I don’t know, man.”

“Come on, Greg. You really don’t remember who took your order? Did you leave your brain in your desk or what?”

“No, it’s, like, like a different person every day. Why?”

“Get this, Greg.” Tom looked around, stooped down, and leaned in. “There’s a phone number on my cup.”

Greg panicked. He hadn’t thought Tom would bring it up like this. Like, directly? Did he know? Had he recognized Greg’s handwriting?

“Really?” Greg asked. No going back now. “What if, like—you don’t think it was for me, though?”

“Did they write a number on _your_ cup, Gregory?”

“Well, no. But I was the one there. What if they didn’t know who each cup was for?”

“Greg, you go there, like, multiple times per day. I think they know your name and order by now.” They definitely did know. Greg didn’t even have to put in an official order anymore, unless he wanted something different, which he never did. He still said the order every time, just to be sure they got it right, but it was nice to see their knowing nods.

“Sure, but I always order the same two drinks, so how would they know which one is mine?”

“Shut up, Greg. They know. But the real question is, do I pursue? You know? I need to know which barista it was first, to make an informed decision here, you know? So, like, tomorrow, I need you to go back, and do a little barista lineup, and figure out who it was.”

“What about Shiv, though? I thought you were thinking about proposing to her, or whatever.”

“I am. Look, I’m not trying to hook up with some rando barista who wrote their number on my coffee cup, Greg. That kind of behavior, Greg? Just handing out your personal details indiscriminately? Highly suspect. I just want to know who it was. I’m dying of curiosity, alright?”

“Right. No, sure.”

_Fuck._

* * *

> Tom: Hi, howdy. This is Tom Wambsgans, head of the Waystar Royco Parks and Cruises Division? You left a note on my coffee cup earlier this week?
> 
> _Unknown: hi_
> 
> _indeed, so i did_
> 
> Tom: So you’re a barista there?
> 
> _Unknown: i'll never tell ;)_
> 
> Tom: Right. Well, I suppose we can safely assume so, since you had access to my cup? Ha ha.
> 
> Anyway. Was there something I could do for you? Advise you on amusement park management, perhaps? Ha.
> 
> _Unknown: Haha, no thats ok. just seen you around and thought you were cute and thought i'd say hi :)_
> 
> Tom: Oh. Well that’s very flattering. Thank you.
> 
> _Unknown: That assistant of yours, hes pretty cute too eh?_
> 
> Tom: Oh, him. Bit of a rube, but yes. I guess you might call it “cute.”
> 
> _Unknown: Lucky you, getting to see him every day huh?_
> 
> Tom: Ah. Perhaps you meant to put your number on his cup instead?
> 
> _Unknown: No no. just making conversation :)_
> 
> Tom: Sure.
> 
> _Unknown: Anyways nice to meet u :) thank you for reaching out, as it were_
> 
> Tom: Sure. Nice to meet you too.

* * *

“Please remember, Greg, that retrieving lattes is supposed to be your job.”

“I know? Like, I do it every day, man. I didn’t make you come with me.” Greg dodged a cluster of people loitering on the sidewalk and bumped Tom’s shoulder. Tom glared at him.

“You kind of did though, Greg. You really couldn’t figure out which barista it was? Want something done right, don’t assign it to Cousin Fucking Greg.”

“Dude, they’re all brunette. How am I supposed to know which of the three brunette girls it was? Did you want me to hire, like, a handwriting consultant?”

“Chill out, man. I’m already stressed enough right now, having to fetch my own coffee on a big meeting day. And don’t you think it’s a bit sexist that you can’t tell three different women apart?”

“It’s not sexist, dude. I just can’t remember. I’ve got, like, other big shit I’m supposed to keep track of.”

“Yeah, because you’re so important, Greg,” Tom said, breezing past him into the coffee shop.

“Somebody’s gotta keep track of your shit,” Greg muttered. Tom was already accosting the woman at the counter.

“A fine morning to you, fair ladies,” Tom said. “My assistant here will be placing my order, but I just wanted to put in a word of thanks for all your excellent service on the days I’m not able to come in myself.”

Greg ordered Tom’s latte, forgoing his own drink since there were already enough questionable decisions he might have to explain to Tom today. He paid with Tom’s card and went to stand by the pickup station at the end of the counter.

Tom lingered behind and with a big cheesy smile said to the cashier, “So is this place like the Hooters of coffeeshops or what? Do you all have to take, like, a hotness test to work here, or is it just coincidence?”

Tom straightened his tie, leaned onto one hand on the counter. If the barista responded to any of that, Greg couldn’t hear it. Tom went on, “Is there, ah—by any chance, might any of you know anything about, ah, your store policy on customer advances?”

Greg pulled out his phone to distract himself from the rest of that discussion, but the image of Tom leaning over the counter with frank interest and the barista leaning away uncomfortably stuck in his mind. He wasn’t jealous. He just felt a little guilty, knowing Tom would never get the answer he was looking for from the employees at the shop, because none of them had any idea what he was talking about.

It already felt too late to admit the number was his, when Tom had sent him on a reconnaissance mission to figure out which barista it was, when he'd already responded to the texts as if they didn't know each other. But then when would be the right time? Tom obviously wasn’t ready to let go of this.

Tom stepped up next to him, whispered, “They do all look rather similar, don’t they?”

Greg nodded, and Tom surveyed the baristas. “I don’t think it’s the cashier one. She looked at me like I’d showed up to a wine tasting with a vulva-shaped cheeseball. Vulveeta? Ha.” Tom considered, his head tilted. “Could be the quiet one in the plaid though. She seems nice, and she’s avoiding eye contact, so she’s probably shy of me, right?”

“Maybe she just hasn’t noticed you. She’s steaming a lot of milk. Maybe she’s afraid of burning herself. Those machines look pretty sketchy, safety-wise, if you ask me. Not a lot of, like, failsafes.”

“Well, they’d better watch out, with my assistant slash part-time OSHA inspector here coming in every day, huh? When are you allowed to start issuing citations, man?”

The barista called out Tom’s drink, and Greg picked up his cup from the counter and handed it to him, herding him toward the door. Maybe Tom would forget about the phone number thing, since he couldn’t tell the baristas apart either.

* * *

> Tom: So did I see you in the shop today?
> 
> _Unknown: who can say? its possible tho ;)_
> 
> Tom: Come on, you can’t stay anonymous forever.
> 
> _Unknown: can’t i?_
> 
> Tom: I mean, I suppose you could. But why bother giving me your number then?
> 
> _Unknown: maybe i like to stay enigmatic_
> 
> Tom: Well you’re certainly that.
> 
> _Unknown: why the press?_
> 
> Tom: Just curious is all
> 
> _Unknown: my lexical charm isnt enough for you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the deranged coffeeshop(-adjacent?) au I mentioned on tumblr! is it still technically a coffeeshop au if neither of them *actually* works at the coffeeshop? fuck if I know ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	2. some socks, a sweater, and a stolen donut

“Dude, I already have a suit. Why do I need another one?”

“You can’t wear that pinstripe monstrosity to the RECNY ball, Greg.” Tom ushered Greg into the store. Greg took a long, terrified look around and leaned over to whisper in Tom’s ear: “Tom, I can’t afford, like, even an undershirt from here? We have to go somewhere else.”

“First of all, Greg, you’re not going to be wearing an undershirt. You’re not some perspiring yokel. Second of all, I’m paying. Imagine how it’d look for me, if my assistant lumbered into a formal event without the proper attire? I do have to be publicly associated with you, you know.”

An employee wearing clothes nicer than Greg had ever owned wandered up to them quietly, eyebrows raised, and Tom began to list off some requests. The employee brandished a measuring tape, but Greg slunk off to a nearby cufflink display; he really did not want to stand there in front of Tom being literally weighed and measured and in all likelihood found wanting in some respect.

Tom called over to him: “What size pants do you wear, Greg? Like, 20x40?” He turned back to the attendant and guffawed, slapping their shoulder like it was some kind of inside joke. The attendant appraised Greg silently, squinting. By the time Greg remembered he was supposed to answer, they’d already walked off.

He turned back to the cufflink display, poking absently at the little boxes while he brooded about the texts Tom had sent him, or his presumed barista admirer. Tom had kept up the correspondence even though Greg had refused to give any personal details, and his messages had started to get a little flirty—still in a distinctly Tom way, but without the vicious bite Greg often got from his in-person comments. Greg wasn’t sure how he felt about it: it was nice to be flirted with, sure, but less nice that Tom only flirted with him like that when he thought he was someone else. And then there was the whole Shiv thing, which—

Greg jumped and nearly knocked over the whole display when Tom stepped up next to him and rubbed his upper back through his coat.

“Fuck, Greg. I can’t afford the whole store. Maybe don’t touch anything else, okay, buddy?”

Greg moved on to a less-breakable sock display along the wall until the attendant came back to lead them toward the back of the store. Tom sat down on a bench against one wall, and the attendant shut Greg in the dressing room, which was larger than the bathroom at his apartment.

Tom talked to him through the door while Greg stood there staring nervously at the array of pants and jackets. He piled his own clothes in a heap on a shelf that seemed meant for them and sighed.

“I mean, what’s the point of giving me their number if they don’t even want to meet me, right?” Tom was saying.

Greg stuttered. “I don’t know, man. Maybe, like . . .” He trailed off and cursed, realizing he’d skipped a button on the shirt he was trying on.

“No name, no picture, no confirmation I’ve ever even seen them in real life? What’s the point? Why fucking bother?”

 _Well, you’re the one who keeps initiating the conversations_ , Greg thought. He pulled on one of the jackets. It was definitely way too big, even he could see that.

“What are they hoping to get out of this anyway?” Tom asked. He was starting to sound antsy.

“Maybe they just like to, you know, chat? With people? Like, in a friendly way? I don’t think this one fits, Tom.”

“Well, come out here and let me look.”

“No, dude, it’s bad. Like, I don’t think—” But Tom had already thrown the door open. Greg hadn’t realized it didn’t lock automatically.

“Oh, _Greg_. Christ, that’s awful.” Tom was scrutinizing him, head turned almost horizontal, distorting his frown. “You look like a fencepost with a cape on.”

“Dude, that’s what I was trying—”

“Alright, next one. Go on, go on.”

The next one made him look like a scarecrow, allegedly, and the one after that was so small Greg couldn’t even get it over both shoulders. Maybe he should’ve let them measure him after all. Tom rattled the door handle.

“Just let me in, Greg. This’ll go a lot faster if you let me help.” Greg unlocked the door, let Tom pick the next option, and kicked him back out into the waiting area.

“Why do you care so much, though? Cause, like, you have Shiv, right?” Greg said. The pants didn’t fall off, so that seemed like a good sign.

“I know, Greg, I know. I just want to know what quality of eye I caught, you know? I can have my fun speculating, can’t I? It’s not cheating just to talk to somebody, Greg.”

“No, sure. Of course not.” Greg paused to straighten the jacket. “What would you do if they were, like, really hot though? Like, hotter than Shiv, perhaps?”

“Nobody’s hotter than Shiv, Greg. Are you done jerkin’ your gherkin in there or are you gonna trot out that suit?”

“Sorry, just—here.” Greg stepped out, and Tom fucking whistled at him.

“Well, how about that. There is a suit that suits Cousin Greg’s gangly alien body.” He reached under Greg’s arm to tug at a seam. “Bit loose around the hips, but nothing a tailor can’t fix.” Greg blushed when Tom unbuttoned the jacket and stuck two fingers in the waistband of the pants. “Well, we can have that taken up too. As long as you’re not drowning in them.”

By the time Greg had gotten dressed in his own clothes and called it quits on a haphazard attempt to hang up everything he’d tried on, Tom had already paid. He shoved a garment bag and a smaller shopping bag into Greg’s arms, promised to take him to his tailor later that week.

Greg hung up the garment bag when he got back to his apartment; it was too long for his meager clothes rack and dragged the floor, but there was nothing he could do about that. He sat on his mattress, his only semblance of furniture, to open the smaller bag, found a pair of dress socks with a subtle blue pattern he’d been eyeing at the store (until he'd seen the absurd price on them), a silky bowtie, and a pair of cufflinks set with expensive-looking blue stone that matched the socks.

He tried to be grateful, but then he found the receipt tucked into the bag and saw it would’ve more than covered his rent for the month. He felt a bit like when Shiv had taken his last twenty-dollar bill, back when Uncle Logan was in the hospital—he knew she didn’t mean anything by it in particular; she just didn’t think anything of a twenty. And why would she, when the Roys and affiliates could apparently drop multiple thousands of dollars at a time without thinking anything of that either?

At least in this case he’d gotten something out of it, something he’d probably need if he was going to succeed in worming his way up the Roy ladder. It was thoughtful of Tom, though, the gift—the fancy cufflinks, and the socks, exactly the ones he’d wanted.

Tom had told him earlier that day he was thinking about holding a press conference about the Cruises malfeasances, and lying there on his bed (per se) in the dark, Greg wondered if that was really such a good idea. He trusted Tom, sure, but he trusted his own Roy instinct too, and his Roy instinct was telling him that if Tom talked about this publicly, they’d probably both get junked.

* * *

_Unknown: morning :)_

Tom: Hi, good morning

_Unknown: hope u have a fortuitous day :)_

Tom: Wow. Thank you. You too. :)

_Unknown: dress up handsome for your coffee run today_

Tom: Why?

Are you working today?

Will I see you?

Hello?

* * *

Tom _had_ dressed up: he’d grabbed Greg by the elbow when he started out for the morning coffee run, making him wait in his office while he changed out of his boxy suit coat and into his best cardigan, the gray one with the nice buttons.

“What’s the occasion?” Greg asked on the walk.

Tom shrugged, looking away. “Don’t want to sweat up my nice jacket. Bit of a walk, no?”

“No, sure. I like that sweater anyway. It looks, like, so comfy.”

“ _Comfy?_ Are you saying I look like a slob, Greg? What the fuck?”

“No, man. No, no. It looks nice. Just, cozy is all. Like, soft, I mean.”

“Whatever, Greg. Your sartorial sentiments are dodgy at best anyway,” Tom said. He sat down at a table to wait for Greg to get their coffee—Greg had started openly getting something for himself too, after Tom asked why he never did. But the entire time he stood at the counter, Greg could feel Tom’s gaze needling his back, like he was expecting Greg to flirt with his unknown barista, and every time he turned to the side to peek, he saw Tom looking away hurriedly.

He wondered why Tom hadn’t come up to flirt with the baristas himself; maybe he was hoping one would give themself up to Greg by asking about him. When Greg got back to the table, Tom slid his mug and saucer toward himself across the table and asked, “Did any of them ask about me? Any oddball behavior? Anything?”

Greg shook his head. “Sorry, man. Nothing.” Tom looked put out, and they sat with their coffee for a few minutes in silence.

“So, man,” Tom asked, “where are you living now? You find something less roach-infested than that youth hostel?”

“Yeah, like, I found a place, but it’s so expensive? And so small? It’s really more of an armoire, basically, like, I can barely even fit my clothes in there, though.”

“I hope you’re hanging up your work suit every day, Greg, as awful it is, and not leaving it in some heap somewhere on your unmopped floor.”

“No, I do. I hang it up. I might have to take it to have it cleaned soon, though, like at a dry cleaner?”

“You haven’t done that yet?”

Tom asked, grimacing.

“Well, it was either that or have lunch? So I’ve been going for the lunch instead?”

“Jesus, Greg. That thing’s gotta be rank by now.”

“I mean, it’s not great, no. And the other problem is that my, uh, hot water heater? It doesn’t really heat, I guess? And it’s kind of difficult to cleanse myself in a shower that’s basically an ice bucket every day. So if you could give me a dry cleaner, like, referral, to a place that doesn’t charge more than, perhaps, five or so dollars for a suit?”

“Greg—” Tom stopped when Kendall stepped up to their table, smirking, with a handsome, 0.1-percenter-rich businessman dawdling behind him.

“What up, bros? Our favorite Parks and Cruises gals out for a little coffee date?” Kendall patted Tom’s shoulder, smiled over at Greg. “Just don’t let the, fuckin’, uh, rollercoaster off the rails while you’re out, yeah?”

Greg watched Kendall and his friend wander up to the counter. Tom had started speculating about who all would be at the RECNY ball, but Kendall’s friend was hopping up on the counter, reaching around to get a donut out of the pastry case, and Greg was caught up wondering if he’d paid for it or if he was stealing it. The man sauntered over to a table with Kendall, holding the donut up high in one hand and licking it in a weirdly kind of sexy way. Maybe it was a diet technique? Or maybe he was trying to flirt? With Kendall?

“Greg!” Tom snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Stop ogling people, Jesus.”

Greg looked down at his cup and mumbled something apology-adjacent.

“Hey, how come you never look at me like that, huh?” Tom asked.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a hot dude licking a pastry.”

“I don’t know, man. I’ve never seen you lick a pastry.”

Tom raised an eyebrow at him, and Greg blustered on: “Does Shiv look at you like you’re a hot dude licking a pastry? Uh, if I may ask?”

“I don’t lick pastries, Greg. So no.” Tom frowned down at his empty coffee cup, and then his phone rang.

“Hi, honey,” Tom said, his voice high and false cheery. “Sure, yeah, I’ll be there ASAP.” He started to stand, waving his free hand at Greg and his still half-full cup.

“Sure, sure. No, that’s alright. Love you. Yeah, see you soon. Bye bye.” Tom hung up and shrugged on his coat. “I’ve gotta get back, Greg. I’m needed on Aisle Shiv."

"What about the team meeting this afternoon?" Greg asked.

Tom sighed. "You'll need to cancel it, I guess. Come on, buddy. How are you not done yet? I knew we should’ve gotten you a to-go cup. You’re worse than my grandmother at the cafeteria on a Sunday afternoon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dedicated to anyone who's ever had to wait what felt like hours for their grandparent to finish their coffee after a meal (this can't just have been me). we see u and we hear 4 u
> 
> [my tomgreg playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6VtDuvJXIMKSLv7KRh3Wpx)
> 
> I am indebted to [cousingregfancam](https://cousingregfancam.tumblr.com/) for the headcanon about Tom setting Greg up with a tux for the RECNY ball <3
> 
> Finally, I'm aware that Tom would almost certainly assume his anonymous correspondent was a woman and would not use gender-neutral pronouns for them, but let me live a little lol


	3. (RECNY) ball and chain

Tom wandered through the ballroom at RECNY, looking for Greg. Instead he bumped into Roman.

“Hey, Tom Wamb! How’s it goin’, man?” Roman asked.

“Oh, hey, Roman. You clean up nice.”

“Aw, aren’t you a sweetie. Hey, you gettin’ blown proper lately? Heard about your coffee dates with Cousin Greg. Can’t get your fill from our sister?”

Tom half laughed, not really listening while he peered across the room for Greg. He turned to say something to get out of his conversation with Roman and found he’d already taken off. But Tom had spotted Greg in any case, so he didn’t have to stand around looking like an antisocial buffoon.

Greg was looking out over the clusters of people around their tables, his back turned to Tom; he really did look nice in the tux Tom had picked out for him. Tom had spent more on it than he’d spent on his own suits in a long time, and he wondered if he could submit it for corporate reimbursement.

Tom reached out and squeezed Greg’s shoulders in a half-assed attempt to make him jump. (Greg’s surprised little jolt at the haberdashery had been so satisfying.)

“Mr. Bond,” Tom said. “I’ve been expecting you. How are ya? Where are you sitting, man?” Why had he asked that? As if he cared where Greg was sitting. He kept talking to preempt Greg from misapprehending his shitty small-talk skills as personal interest. “In the basement? Out by the dumpsters? Do you want to trade? Maybe you’ll meet a wealthy widow and you can seduce her with your sad eyes.”

Greg hardly had time to stutter a response before Tom found himself getting dragged off into a corner with Gerri, of all people. Somehow she knew about his idea for a press conference about the Cruises documents, which he’d explained literally only to Greg. (Sure, he’d mentioned it to Shiv while they were getting dressed earlier, but she’d gotten distracted by a call from Joyce, and packing a bag for something or other, and he wasn’t sure she’d been listening even before all that. Had she?)

But Gerri wouldn’t even let him get a full sentence out in explanation. “Tom, you need to shut up,” she said. “This isn’t the time to get your conscience out and shout, ‘Hey look at me! I cannot tell a lie! I’m a good little boy! Look at my ding-dong!’”

It really wasn’t a fair characterization of his attempt to be probably one of the only Waystar employees with some semblance of a moral compass, but Gerri talked over him and cut him down until he realized he had no option but to abandon the idea altogether. And she refused to tell him who’d mentioned it to her in the first place, making some schoolyard jab about his mother to distract him.

Tom stewed on the confrontation through dinner. It had to have been Greg who’d blabbed to Gerri, as much as Tom hated to admit it. Maybe his first instinct of seeing Greg as a competitor was proving correct; maybe Tom had been a fool to finally let himself trust someone. How could Greg betray him like this, after everything Tom had done to drag his green and cheaply clad ass up through the ranks at the company? Tom had treated him like family, after all, which was treatment neither of them was likely to get in droves from the Roys proper.

In the sudden lonely silence after Shiv got up to get another drink at the bar, Tom was overcome by that feeling of betrayal. He just couldn’t sit with it, not when Greg was thriving a few tables away, probably giggling to himself about his successful deceit of naïve old Tom. So Tom got up too, grabbed Greg from his seat and dragged him back into the corner Gerri had confronted him in earlier.

“You lump of fucking turducken,” Tom said, getting up in his face.

“Hi, Tom,” Greg said, giving him that smile of confused innocence that Tom was never sure if he was faking or not.

“Did you squeal?” Tom asked.

“What?”

“Did you bitch me out, pig man?” Greg just sputtered, eyebrows furrowed, didn’t answer. “You bleated about the fucking press conference,” Tom said.

“No!”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I did not!”

“Yes, you did, you filthy piece of shit. I ought to drag you into the kitchens and have them boil y—” And then Greg practically shoved him, cringing away, and Tom was so affronted he hardly remembered what either of them said after that.

“Are these assaults going to be ongoing?” he asked, to Greg’s vociferous denial and prolific swearing that it wasn’t him who’d tattled. He looked down at Tom with those pathetic fucking Puss-in-Boots eyes, and Tom cursed himself for falling for it, just as he imagined the figurative rich WASPy widow he’d ribbed Greg about earlier would’ve done. But there was no way Greg was that good of a liar.

Just then Tom looked over toward his table, where Shiv was sitting back down with her drink. She raised a smug eyebrow at him, and maybe it was meant to be flirty, or suggestive, or literally anything positive. But he couldn’t help wondering if maybe she’d been listening to him earlier after all, if that cocked eyebrow was an expression of her thicker-than-water loyalties. Could he blame her, for not wanting him to expose her family to intense legal scrutiny?

He couldn’t, not really. But also he _could_. Wasn’t he just trying to do the right thing? Shouldn’t his partner want him to have a clear conscience? He shooed Greg back off to his seat, and he was broody and quiet the rest of the evening. He didn’t think Shiv noticed, not even on the silent car ride back to their apartment. She certainly didn’t ask if he was alright, no matter how many times he sighed, hoping she’d pick up on it.

He sat down in a huff on the couch when they got in.

“What is going on with you?” Shiv asked. So apparently she had noticed. “You’ve been really fucking moody.”

“Yeah, I’m just—I mean, I’m sorry. I’m just worrying about the work thing. The zombies, you know?”

“I mean, but what about it? Just leave it buried, Tom. Or don’t. You can make the call.”

“Can I, though?” Tom asked. “Like, would you actually let me do that?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know, Shiv." Tom shook his head, exasperated. "I don’t know.”

“Just say it, Tom. You’ve been moping for hours. You’re clearly upset about something. And you know I had a campaign event I should’ve gone to tonight, so this is just really making me wish I’d done that instead.”

“I’m sorry, honey. Just, can you tell me—did you talk to Gerri?”

“Gerri? About what? No, I haven’t talked to Gerri.” She sounded affronted, confused.

“Alright. It’s just that—well, she said some things to me. Earlier tonight. About the zombies. And I’m not sure how she would’ve found out, if not—”

“What, if not from me? You think I fucking tattled on you to Gerri, Tom?” She smiled that typical Roy smile of cold amusement. “Why would I do that, when I could’ve just puppeted you from my own fucking couch, if I cared to?”

Tom slouched back into the couch, quiet. Maybe she was telling the truth, but the way she was telling it was only making him feel worse.

“Come on, it’s a joke, Tom,” she said. He didn’t respond.

And then he looked up at her. “You had a campaign event, Shiv?” he asked. “I thought you said a friend invited you out tonight.”

“I can’t talk about this right now, Tom. You’re really trying to drag my work engagements into this when you’re the one blaming me for getting you in trouble, like we’re fucking ten-year-olds?”

“Was it actually a work engagement, though? Because—”

“Have you always been this paranoid? Come on, Tom. This is all nothing. It’s nothing.” She sat down next to him, patted his shoulder, peered into his face.

Tom sat quiet for a moment, then asked softly, “I just—can I trust you? Shiv? I just need to know.”

“Tom—”

“I want to. I want to trust you,” Tom said. “I was going to ask you to marry me, you know? But now, I just, I’m not sure if . . .”

“You—you were what? Tom. _Tom_. Slow down for a minute, alright?”

Tom looked up at her. “Was it a campaign event, Shiv? Or were you going out with a friend?” Did it even matter, if she’d rather have been there than with him anyway?

Shiv stared back at him, shaking her head. Her face went blotchy, and she looked like she was going to tear up. But then she didn’t—she set her jaw, pursed her lips, and sat up from where she’d been leaning into him.

“Listen, Tom. I’m going out. I’ve got a thing, for a few days, so I won’t be back. After that . . . I think we should pump the brakes on this for a bit. Get around a little. Spend some time on ourselves. Okay?”

“What—are you breaking up with me, Shiv?”

“No, Tom. This—this isn’t a breakup. I just think we need some space, okay? Just space. To think, to be ourselves.”

“Okay, but . . . but I’m myself with you, Shiv.”

She stood up, worrying the collar of her blouse. “I don’t know, Tom. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like you are anymore.” She patted his shoulder again, distantly, her face turned toward him but her focus somewhere else. “Just for a bit, okay? We’re not breaking up. Just getting some space. Just for a bit. Okay?”

Tom looked up at her, feeling his face start to crumple, and forced out an _okay_ in response. He put his face in his hands, trying to hold back his tears, and by the time he looked up again Shiv was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes I upped the chapter count and what of it
> 
> ohnoshitjudas's tomgreg art lives rent free in my head, especially all her sad Toms, like [this one, sitting all alone with his head in his hands](https://ohnoshitjudas.tumblr.com/post/635786669898006528/ok-so-good-evening-tomgreg-nation-some-of-my), which was def an inspiration for the sad Tom I wrote here <3


	4. sexy-texting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Cringe Church! I'm so delighted to have you here today 🥴
> 
> (earning our rating [and updated tags] today, folks 🤠 if you're not into smut, you can skip this chapter! see endnotes for a quick summary if you like)

After Shiv left, Tom let Mondale out of his pen and stretched out on the couch with a glass of wine. Mondale settled in next to him on the floor, laid out like a guard dog off duty. As nice as it was to have the dog there with him, loyal and affectionate, Tom still felt unmoored.

It wasn’t a good feeling, not knowing who you could trust, especially when you had to choose between the only two people you’d allowed yourself to feel at all comfortable with in your accomplished adult life: your partner, who you'd taken care of better than you'd ever taken care of yourself, and who’d just ditched you, possibly indefinitely; and your assistant, for whom you'd done everything you wished someone had done for you when you were in his place, and who you’d maybe started to let yourself think of as a friend.

It was like going through two breakups at once—that same overwhelming well of awfulness caused by the one person who you’d normally enlist to drag you up out of it. But they were gone, of course, and you couldn’t call them for help, so you were abandoned there in the cold dark not only once, at the point of bereavement, but again and again and again, every time you remembered, every time you hurt, every time you wanted not to hurt. The way Tom felt about these dual maybe-losses was like all that, but twice over.

Even if he could’ve explained the details of the betrayal to anyone else, Tom had no one else he could talk to. He was not about to call his mother. But—he did have his little pen pal, though, didn’t he? His anonymous texting buddy? It might going a bit overboard to get too deep into his emotions with someone whose name he didn’t even know, but a diverting chat couldn’t hurt.

He refilled his wine glass, brought the bottle back with him, and sent out a feeler. 

> Tom: Are you up?

He set his phone down on the farthest cushion away from him on the couch, not wanting to let himself get too anxious waiting for a reply. But the response came before he'd even had a chance to swallow a gulp of wine.

> _Unknown: indeed, so i am. Everything alright?_
> 
> Tom: Rough night, kinda.
> 
> _Unknown: i know :/_
> 
> _i mean. Sry to hear that. u wanna talk abt it_
> 
> Tom: Not really. Sorry. I’m not sure why I texted you.
> 
> _Unknown: its ok. Maybe i could like distract u?_
> 
> Tom: How do you mean?
> 
> _Unknown: um_
> 
> Tom: ?
> 
> _Unknown: Like just_
> 
> _sorry_
> 
> _like just if you wanted to like … talk_
> 
> _like, sexily_
> 
> Tom: Oh. Oh I mean sure yeah. I’d be up for that. You wanna send me some pics?
> 
> _Unknown: oh no. No. Sorry i cant_
> 
> Tom: Right of course sorry
> 
> that’s fine
> 
> _Unknown: but i can um_
> 
> _Let me just_
> 
> _i can tell you what im thinking about_
> 
> Tom: Ok
> 
> So tell me
> 
> _Unknown: tell me what u like_
> 
> _do u like blowjobs_
> 
> Tom: um. fuck
> 
> sorry I have voice text on and I'm still figuring it out I didn’t mean to send that like that
> 
> but more to the point yes, obviously
> 
> _Unknown: i bet u have a nice dick_
> 
> _u seem so well groomed_
> 
> _u should take it out. like tell me what your doing_
> 
> Tom: I’m in my bed
> 
> I just changed the sheets so it’s very clean and fresh
> 
> I also just lit a linen-scented candle

Tom waited a minute but there was no response. Maybe that wasn't what they'd meant by "tell me what your [ _sic_ ] doing"—but then maybe they were just waiting for more details?

> Tom: I'm listening to my solo time playlist

Another few moments of quiet. Tom took a drink, checked his phone, leaned down to pet Mondale, checked his phone, and wondered if he should turn on the news, or just take a sleeping pill and call the whole thing off.

> Tom: Are you still there?
> 
> _Unknown: shit sorry_
> 
> _i was uh_
> 
> _full disclosure i just took a massive rip off a gravity bong so_
> 
> _anyway not solo time tonight tho huh?_
> 
> Tom: ha, not tonight
> 
> I hope this isn’t too forward. But can you tell me how old you are?
> 
> _Unknown: old enough :)_
> 
> Tom: Old enough for ?
> 
> _Unknown: i'm an adult, if thats what ur askin?_
> 
> Tom: It is, yeah. Good. That's good.
> 
> I just wanted to make sure before ...
> 
> _Unknown: go on_
> 
> Tom: I’m just thinking about fucking you, and I’m trying to imagine what you look like
> 
> _Unknown: what do u think i look like. an how do u imagine fuckin someone when u dont know. sounds intense_
> 
> Tom: I bet you have a perfect little cocksucking mouth. Plush and pink. I bet you would like how I taste. I use this oil on my pubic hair made from a blend of lemon and jojoba oils
> 
> _Unknown: i do have a mouth. that has sucked a cock before_
> 
> _idk what jojoba is but i do appreciate a good lemon_
> 
> _do u think ur lemon oil tastes sour tho_
> 
> Tom: I think it’s tasty
> 
> Not that I’ve tried it of course, that’d be weird ha! But you know. You could. If you wanted. Like if you were going to blow me.
> 
> _Unknown: touch ur cock. pretend its me blowing you and tasting ur lemon oil_
> 
> Tom: I am
> 
> _Unknown: cool_
> 
> Tom: Are you sure you can’t send me a picture? Like maybe of just your mouth? That could be fairly anonymous
> 
> _Unknown: i really cant :( it’s not like personal. i have like a flip phone? i don’t think i even have mms_
> 
> Tom: Ah, that explains the spelling. ha. I’ll just have to imagine then
> 
> _Unknown: :)_
> 
> Tom: Maybe you could talk more, though?
> 
> _Unknown: like do u want me to describe effectively my blowjob like methodology? or?_
> 
> Tom: That sounds a bit clinical? Maybe I could tell you what I like. Would you like that?
> 
> _Unknown: yeah. that sounds nice_
> 
> Tom: It’s difficult to type with one hand
> 
> Can I call you?
> 
> _Unknown: um_
> 
> Tom: Sorry it’s okay if not
> 
> _Unknown: sorry no yeah im just not in a place where i can like talk rn_
> 
> _but if you want to_
> 
> _sure_
> 
> _I mean ill just listen if thats ok?_

Tom took a deep breath and pressed Call, and when he heard a rustle on the other end, he said _hi_ softly, his voice cracking a little.

“You’re sure this is good?” he asked. “Oh, right. Can’t talk. Well, ah, just hang up, I guess, if—if whatever. I’m gonna put you on speakerphone, hold on.” He cleared his throat, set the phone down on his chest, checked that his lube was within reach on the nightstand.

He’d been rubbing his dick through his sweatpants, but he reached under the waistband to stroke himself directly, wondering if his soft sigh at the skin contact was audible. Even as he touched himself idly he worried: Who was this person? He still didn’t know if he’d ever met them in real life. What if it was someone he’d have to see every day for the rest of his life and not realize it? What if they told everyone he knew about the way he whimpered when he—?

What if they were a spy for Shiv, getting dirt on him as an excuse for her to break up with him? Like really, _forever_ , break up with him? Maybe he would deserve that, for going through with this. But she was the one who’d wanted to “get around a bit.” What if they were a spy for _Logan_ , getting dirt on him to fuck him over years later, long after he’d forgotten all of this? What if this was just the quiet slide of a single piece in Logan's intergenerational long game?

Just then Tom heard a nervous wavery breath through the phone, and even though his brain couldn’t tell if it reminded him more of a phone sex operator or the crank-caller killer in _When a Stranger Calls_ , his body was into it. That breath was soft enough he could imagine it was an encouragement to go on, even if his admirer couldn’t speak.

“I wanna fuck your mouth,” Tom said, blinking hard at himself. “I’m looking at my hand on my cock and imagining it’s your lips wrapped around me instead. I’m—” Tom swallowed, pausing. “I’m scraping myself a little bit with my fingernails, pretending it’s, like, your teeth scraping because you can’t open your mouth wide enough. I’m using this lube, and it’s warm and kind of thick, like your spit gets when you’ve been sucking cock for a little too long and you’re starting to get thirsty, and your jaw’s getting tired, so you start jerking me off into your mouth instead, to give your jaw a break.”

Tom closed his eyes and pictured round, beseeching eyes looking up at him, like a humanized pleading emoji—the ones Shiv used to text him all the time when she still asked him for help with things instead of just calling and expecting him to show up. But these eyes were blue like fogged glass and they were set above a narrow nose, a mouth softer and wider than Tom could place.

“I bet your lower lip is so round,” he said, “like an adorable little pillow made just for my dick. I bet your eyes are round too, and glassy when you get overwhelmed, like the marble eyes they put in taxidermied animals. _Fuck_. I bet you lick your lips when you’re nervous. I bet your tongue is pink and wet and soft. Would you flick it over the head of my dick like the overdeveloped clit it is or would you just sit there and let me fuck your face?”

Tom took a breath, relishing in the picture in his head, pushing away the errant thoughts about the source material he might be drawing from for the image of his correspondent. In the pause he heard short exhales, a nearly inaudible, ambiguous whimper, and his heart raced.

“Fuck, I can hear you breathing. Are you getting turned on, thinking about licking up my cock? I wish I knew what your hands look like. I bet you have nice long fingers; I bet they’d look slender and pretty on my dick. I wanna pump your mouth full of my cum like I’m filling an éclair at a patisserie. Can I do that? Can I come in your mouth? Fuck, I’m— _fuck_.”

Tom’s spine bowed taut as he came, hand wrapped tight around the base of his cock, and his phone clattered to the floor. He took a minute to catch his breath, then picked the phone up and took it off speaker. He could hear quick heavy breaths that matched his own.

“Was that—I hope that was okay. For you? It was, ah, pretty great for me, personally. Ha! Like, so hot. I think I’m gonna, yeah, hang up now? So I can clean up my jizz? Okay? Still can’t talk? Cool. Alright, bye. Bye bye.”

Tom tried not to seem desperate by sending a follow-up text immediately. He cleaned up and laid in bed with the bedside lamp on for nearly half an hour, but ultimately he couldn’t help himself. It felt weird to him to do something that intimate with someone and not check in with them afterward. Especially when they couldn’t say anything the whole time. And it’d be pretty embarrassing if he’d just talked himself off out loud and the other person had just been sitting there trying not to laugh.

> Tom: Was that good? For you?
> 
> _Unknown: hell ya dude. your voice is sexy like that. it’s like ur in touch with ur truest wants rn._ _i mean ur fuckin kinda weird but like in a hot way_
> 
> _and i feel like u almost know what i look like. maybe ur like psychic or sth_
> 
> Tom: Psychics are fake though. They just do that bullshit where they’re vague enough that anything sounds true. Maybe I just did that to you to make you feel special.
> 
> _Unknown: or maybe you've seen me and u know what i look like and u just don’t know that i'm me but we’re meant for each other so u have like the platonic form of me in ur head_
> 
> Tom: that’s awfully romantic seeing as you haven’t even told me your name
> 
> _Unknown: if we’re meant for each other maybe u dont need it_
> 
> Tom: Well aren’t you cryptic
> 
> _Unknown: :)_
> 
> _I just, uh. touched myself. also_
> 
> _so like I’m prolly gonna fall asleep any second_
> 
> _goodnite in case_
> 
> Tom: Good night then
> 
> And thank you
> 
> Uh, for the distraction
> 
> _Unknown: :)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're skipping this chapter, just know that Tom and his "anonymous" texting buddy sext and then Tom calls them, and they basically have one-sided phone sex because Greg doesn't want to talk and reveal himself.


	5. a gallows of one's own

Greg had let this go too far, and now he didn’t know if there was a way out. He got the impression something had happened with Tom, maybe between him and Shiv? At least judging by the way Tom had been acting—like a touch-starved cactus, extra needy and extra resentful of whoever he relied on to fill that need.

But Tom wasn’t really speaking to him much lately, after their confrontation at the RECNY ball, and Greg thought Tom might’ve figured out he was the one who’d talked to Gerri about Tom’s press conference idea. He’d just been trying to protect both of them, really. Tom had gotten them exposed to the virus; Greg had found them a vaccine. He certainly didn’t want to go to jail, and he really couldn’t bear it if Tom did and he could’ve done something to prevent it.

But he’d known Tom would see the move as a betrayal; obviously he had, since he was hardly talking to Greg. And then on top of that Greg had gone and fucking sexted him, pretending he was someone else, which was probably illegal in itself. Greg had fucked him over and then really, actually fucked him, or listened to him fuck himself, more like.

(Greg had never been able to get into audio porn; it was so mortifying, all those dramatic moans and squelches. But hearing Tom’s familiar voice and the domestic little sounds Greg had grown so accustomed to, recontextualized in this sensual way, and knowing he couldn’t make a noise himself? Even muddled up with the horrible fact that Tom probably hated him then and the low nausea of Greg’s guilt about so many things, Greg really had found the whole thing unbearably hot in a specifically Tom way that wouldn’t have worked for anyone else.)

But even though Tom wasn’t really talking to him, he was still texting him, or fake him.

> Tom: I’d like to meet you. How about I take you to dinner?

What was Greg supposed to do with that? Hire one of the baristas to go in his place? Even if he could’ve somehow afforded to, he didn’t really _want_ to, was the thing. He wanted to go out with Tom, wanted Tom to know how hot he found him and how weirdly funny he was when he wanted to be, especially when he quit being such an insecure prick, but he didn’t know if Tom would want all that too. And if he did admit everything, he might be fucked out of a job, especially, like, if Tom hadn’t already realized Greg wasn’t straight and freaked out about it, not that that was legal, but Greg knew it happened.

> _Unknown: i'll need to check my calendar. when were u proposing_

Just as Greg sent the response Tom knocked on the doorway to his cubicle. Greg dropped his phone loudly onto his desk.

“Hard to get in on a Cousin Greg calling card these days, huh? You’re a busy man, Greg. Talking to, _oh_ , _all kinds_ of people, huh? Maybe you’d get some work done if you stopped texting all your cronies during the workday.” Tom scoffed, and just then his phone chimed in his pocket with Greg’s text.

Tom cleared his throat, said, “Remember we’ll be out of the office Wednesday and Thursday the week of Thanksgiving, so get your shit back to me early in the week, alright, pal?” Tom said. Greg wasn’t entirely sure what shit he was wanting back, but he could deal with that later. For now he just nodded, smiled grimly, and Tom un-darkened his doorway.

Greg snorted when he got a text moments later.

> Tom: Tomorrow? Or later this week? Whenever you could, I guess.
> 
> _Unknown: i’ll get back to u_

Greg scrolled through Instagram on his computer, not really wanting to think about how he was going to deal with the date invitation or whatever vague assignments Tom was expecting him to get to. Tom didn’t have Instagram, as far as Greg knew, but Shiv did. She rarely updated it—her photos were mostly just selfies with political candidates and coworkers and at campaign events. But she had a ton of active followers, and sometimes they tagged her in more personal-seeming photos.

Not that Greg looked very often. It was public, though. He was just checking up on a family member, really.

Shiv hadn’t been tagged in any photos super recently, but the month before, someone named Nate, who appeared to be a coworker or at least to float among the same kind of people, had tagged her in a few. Greg was pretty certain Tom had told him Shiv was on a business trip around that time last month—they'd gone out, since Tom was free. Greg guessed it was possible that Nate had been a part of that business trip.

But the photos didn’t seem very businesslike, to be honest. A little past business casual, and into that intimate, almost reverent gaze you could just tell the photographer held, even at a glance. In one, Shiv was holding a cocktail up in a dark booth, her head tilted back so her face caught the light, eyes squeezed shut as she laughed. In another, a selfie, she was glaring at the camera in mock displeasure, the corner of her mouth quirked up, while Nate leaned in close, his nose scrunched in a grin against her cheek.

With her image-centric job, there was no way Shiv didn't realize her tagged photos were public. And Greg definitely spotted a few Roys among the likes. But Tom would probably never see them on his own. He wouldn't even know to look. Seeing these photos was like finding a secret recording on YouTube of your friend getting slapped in the face, and finding out all his in-laws had texted each other the link.

He had to tell Tom, didn’t he? Greg second-guessed his motivations, though—he wouldn’t just be doing it because he wanted Tom to break up with Shiv, so Greg could have Tom for himself, right? It’d be to help a friend.

Greg thought Tom was with Shiv because being with Shiv gave him some kind of purpose: the things Tom did for Shiv could be approved of or not, passed or failed. And when Shiv approved, when Tom passed, he was in a good mood, he felt good. But the rest of the time, not so much. Shiv wasn’t a bad person. It was just that the way she treated Tom, requiring him to do so much for her that he neglected himself, and then cutting him down when he showed any kind of need of his own, seemed kind of toxic.

Greg wasn’t stupid—he could see that dynamic reflected in his own relationship with Tom. It made him a little hopeful, honestly, to see Tom using his existing romantic relationship as maybe an unconscious blueprint for his relationship with Greg. The difference was that Greg was a Roy, in all but his name, and unlike Tom he knew how to take shit without letting it eat him alive.

* * *

Greg wasn’t usually much of a brooder, but that weekend he brooded. On Saturday he wake-and-baked, loaded a bowl to smoke with a piece of toast and a pot of too-strong coffee for breakfast, and then he laid on the floor, sipping coffee more burned by the hour, trying to sort out how to handle all this: the mixed guilt and conviction about having curtailed Tom's press conference ideals, the cheating evidence, the date invitation. (Also, less important but still a significant consideration: depending on how all that went, he might never have phone sex with Tom again, let alone any other kind of sex. [Not to mention the chance of anything _else_ with Tom.] But he could be a one-hit wonder in the phone sex department. He had a bit of grieving to do over that potentiality.)

He called his mother, talked to her about the photos of Shiv. That was something he could keep vague enough to avoid too much judgment. He’d tell Tom about the photos, he and his mom decided together. He really had no other option that would preserve his conscience.

The question was whether to do it before or after he admitted to Tom that it was his number Tom had been texting—that it was him Tom had had one-sided phone sex with the week before. After talking to his mom, Greg realized that if he needed to be honest about the photos, he also needed to be honest about the texting thing.

There was probably a fifty-fifty chance it would go well—Greg wasn’t going to pretend it’d end up hunky fucking dory, all clear.

Heads, Tom got pissed and fired him and never talked to him again. Tails . . . who fucking knew.

Greg thought for a long time, there on the floor in a dank cloud, about the way Tom had looked at his mouth last week, when he’d come in to shit-talk Greg unwittingly immediately after texting him to ask him out. He wondered if Tom realized that the face he’d described on the phone was uncannily similar to Greg’s.

When he’d gone into the coffee shop later that week, he’d paid closer attention to the baristas for once, just to see if any of them had taxidermy marble eyes, a narrow nose, a pillowy mouth. He couldn’t see that any did. But when he looked in the mirror, admittedly a little blazed, he really thought all of those descriptors could apply to his own face.

So maybe: Tails, Tom was into it. Tom liked him back. Maybe.

And so the plan: He’d text Tom back about the date, agree to it, show up. He’d dress up; he’d look nice; he’d wear a blazer, at least. He’d explain everything. And later, maybe, depending on how Tom reacted? Then he’d tell Tom about Nate.

* * *

On Monday morning at 8:05 he got an antsy text from Tom.

> Tom: So. Any thoughts? About dinner?
> 
> _Unknown: Right. Sorry. Yes_
> 
> Tom: Yes as in ... ?
> 
> _Unknown: As in yes i’ll go._
> 
> Tom: Oh, great. Good. Let’s meet on Friday at 8? Is that a good time?
> 
> _Unknown: yep_
> 
> Tom: Great. I’ll see you on Friday at 8. I’ll send you the address after I’ve got the reservation. I’d be happy to give you a ride too, if you need it?
> 
> _Unknown: no thats ok, i got it. see u then_

And then, on Monday morning at 8:25, Tom waltzed over to his cube, looking smug. Greg hoped the panicked blush he felt on his neck wasn’t terribly obvious.

“Hey, Greg?” Tom said. “I need you to call around and get me a dinner reservation for Friday at 8. Okay? That’s 8 p.m., buddy, not a.m. Someplace nice, but not so nice it seems schmoozy, you know?”

Greg did not know but he nodded anyway. This was some kind of special torture, setting up the time and place for his own likely evisceration. He picked out a few spots, presented Tom with a list in his office.

Tom sneered down at his Post-It note. “What the fuck is this, Greg? Who eats seafood on a date?”

“A date? I thought Shiv was—”

“Not your business, Gregory.”

“Sorry. Anyway I like seafood,” Greg said. “And aren’t oysters supposed to be, like, an aphrodisiac?”

“I’m not taking _you_ on a date, Greg. You can hitch yourself on over to Long John Fucking Silver’s while I’m out on Friday, okay? Don’t impose your weird Canadian fish beliefs on my love life, please. Bring me a few more options. I know you don’t know what’s decent, but just make sure there’s truffle oil somewhere on the menu, alright, buddy?”

Maybe it was a bit of a perk, getting to choose the site of his own execution, Greg decided. At least he could pick a spot that would have a menu item he might actually like—if he was allowed to stay and eat once he’d said his piece.

He made a second list of places that both had pasta options and truffle-oil options, and finally Tom agreed to one. Greg called to set up the reservation, feeling a bit like he was scheduling his own funeral. Moments later Tom sent him a text with the address.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feels so weird making virus analogies now. Thank god for vaccines 
> 
> also sorry to my Canadian buds, idk if you have weird fish beliefs or not but it felt like a Tom thing to say. carry on
> 
> also also shoutout to deadpanwalking for the Tom truffle oil bit lol


	6. The Date

It had gotten really fucking cold out, and Greg, his hot water heater still dead despite multiple beseeching emails to the super, had started showering in the locker room at the Waystar gym. He usually tried to go early in the morning, but he’d decided to risk it after work today, wanting to look as fresh as possible before he showed up at the restaurant to meet Tom.

He fiddled around with free weights until the place cleared, then rushed to shower, hoping to god Tom didn’t work out in the evenings. He’d brought his tux so he wouldn’t have to go all the way back to his apartment for it, and he hung it up on a locker door while he sat on a bench to attempt to give his shoes a little shine with a few squares of toilet paper.

He was getting flustered with his bowtie, crouching down to see it in the mirror, when someone came in. Kendall, looking sweaty and fresh off the treadmill. Greg could hear the music coming from his headphones.

Kendall grinned at him. “Hey, cuz!” he said, his voice a touch too loud. He set the headphones around his neck. “Somebody’s got fancy plans, huh? You got a big date or what?”

“Uh?" he said. "Kind of."

Kendall didn’t waver. “Yeah? Cool, man. You need help with that?” He gestured at Greg’s tie, hanging in a pathetic tangle around his neck.

“Hah. Sure looks like it, don’t it?” Greg said. Kendall washed his hands, dried them thoroughly, and reached up, smirking, to tie Greg’s tie.

“Next time bring me a stepladder, man,” Kendall said, stepping back.

Greg laughed. “Yeah, sorry about that. Thanks, though. I was having a rough go.”

“You’re good, dude,” Kendall said.

“Well, I gots to go,” Greg said. “Places to be.” He folded down to hug Kendall, hands sticking a little in the sweat on his shoulders. He winced and straightened back up.

“See you, brother,” Kendall said. “Tie one on tonight, yeah?”

Greg chuckled, not really sure what that meant. He hurried to the elevator, panicking as it passed each floor that the doors were going to slide open and reveal Tom. He made it out without any more encounters—thank god his only run-in had been with Kendall, who always seemed a little too distracted to be a dick, at least to Greg—and started the trek to the restaurant.

* * *

Greg wandered through the tables looking for Tom, trying not to bump his head on any of the low-hanging lamps, grimacing at the too-loud click of his stiff dress shoes on the painted concrete floor. He didn’t really think you were supposed to just walk through at this kind of place, but once he’d snuck past the maître d’ nobody even seemed to notice him. He was dressed like one of the fucking staff, maybe that was why—he started to worry going full tux had been too much. Was he overdressed? He felt overdressed. But what else were you supposed to wear a tux for, if not for when you wanted to look extra nice?

He finally spotted Tom, looking polished and professional and only a little nervous in a pale gray suit and lavender striped shirt. Greg liked when he wore lighter colors like this—this pale gray jacket, or after hours, when wore just his shirt, the sleeves rolled up—the pastels leaving his eyes so gossamer bright, his skin fresh. His hair was slicked down stiff, except a little tuft of it scuffed up on one side.

Greg braced himself and walked up to his table, and Tom looked up in surprise, half standing up to greet him but then sitting back down abruptly in confusion.

“ _Greg_? What the fuck, man?”

“Hey, Tom,” Greg said quietly, hovering next to the table.

“Look at you, all dolled up,” Tom said. “You look slick, but why the hell are you wearing your tux? And what the fuck are you doing here?”

Greg perched nervously on the chair across from Tom. “I think—like, I had a date, Tom?”

“ _Here_ though, Greg? Why would you schedule a date at the same place as mine? A little stalkerish, no?” His brow furrowed. “Did Shiv send you to spy on me?”

“No, man, no. I guess, like, when I was looking at all the menus for you, it just seemed like a good place, like, they had some entrees that looked so impressive, you know, and—”

“Well, where’s your date, Greg? Have you just left them somewhere to rot away in despondent silence while you skip around the place flirting?”

“No, that’s—that’s the thing, actually? I—” Greg floundered, silently begging Tom’s deduction skills to step up.

“Greg. Come on, buddy. You really can’t just be hanging out at my table. You’re going to scare off my date.”

Greg couldn’t go through with this. Tom hadn’t pieced things together; Greg knew he was an unlikely choice for someone like Tom, knew Tom would be hoping for someone somehow better. He’d be disappointed, if not pissed, if he found out his secret admirer was Greg, his maybe-soon-ex(?)-partner’s gangly cousin, his wide-eyed and hopelessly, pitifully loyal assistant, and not some hot young brunette in a flannel that smelled like old coffee.

“Yeah, that’s the thing, um,” Greg said, fumbling for an explanation. “I’m pretty sure I was just, like, stood up? The person was supposed to show up, you know, like, a while ago, and they just didn’t. So I thought maybe I’d do a little perambulatory around the place and see if maybe they got sat at a different table?”

“Well, you’re going to have to sort this one out on your own, buddy. Maybe go back up and talk to the maître d’ and see if they can find your gal. But I’m going to need you to skedaddle the fuck off my table, Greg, because my actual date is supposed to show up any minute.”

“No, sure. I mean . . . right. But—Tom?” Greg took a deep breath to say something, anything, but Tom cut in too fast.

“Greg, buddy. Shoo, alright? Go find your date. We’ll talk later.”

Greg nodded, frustrated he couldn't get the words out and trying to ignore the prickling threat behind his eyes. He stood up slowly from the table, the chair scraping quietly on the painted concrete floor, and started to wave a little goodbye, but then he was reaching out, smoothing down the stray bit of hair poking out on the side of Tom’s head. Tom frowned up at him, quiet for once, his gaze flicking across Greg’s face.

They spoke over each other suddenly, breaking the silence, Greg stuttering out an apology and Tom muttering a hesitant thanks. Greg looked away quickly and hurried out.

He drifted outside, on the sidewalk, stood staring up at the restaurant’s sign above the street, lit bright in the dark. He thought about trying to go back in, cursed under his breath, and turned to walk home, feeling toweringly out of place on the street in his pointless tux and fresh-shined dress shoes.

At home he hung up the tux on his one spare hanger, annoyed he'd have to wrestle the garment bag back from the locker room later, and sprawled out on his mattress with a joint, in his boxers and three-hundred-dollar socks. His phone buzzed across the room, and he realized he’d left it in the pocket of the jacket. It was Tom.

> Tom: What just happened? Did I just get stood up by someone I’ve never even met?
> 
> _Unknown: i’m so sorry, like rly gravest apologies dude_
> 
> Tom: “Dude”? What the fuck is this? Who are you?
> 
> _Unknown: im just sorry. i couldnt make it. maybe we could reschedule_
> 
> Tom: I think it’s a bit late for that.
> 
> _Unknown: no sure yeah_
> 
> _ok_
> 
> _i get it_
> 
> _i want to meet u but i get it, i fucked up_
> 
> _again im sorry_
> 
> Tom: I can’t fucking believe this. Fuck off. Don’t contact this number again.

Greg was miserable. He was a mortified train wreck, and in his idiocy he’d hurt Tom too, letting him think he’d been stood up, rejected.

He really wanted to shower, but he still didn’t have hot water, and he didn’t want to add cold and wet to his existing misery. Instead he lay there in the dark and scrolled back through his messages with Tom, wishing they’d actually been for him. He deleted them one by one, and then deleted Tom’s contact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when I started writing this it was supposed to be fun and cute, idk what the hell happened. (pls kindly avert your eyes from the chapter count, which definitely hasn't changed at all. this is absolutely me gaslighting you. but i really do think i'm set at 9. god i hope lol)
> 
> ty ty to beck for pinch-hitting as a costuming consultant!


	7. choppin' it up

“I just want you to trust me, Greg,” Tom had said, asking him to go into the office on a fucking holiday. “And I want to be able to trust you.” And fuck if Greg could resist that—even if he _hadn’t_ been blazed out of his confrontation-capable mind on Roman’s dank fucking rich-dude bud, he couldn’t have said no to that. Not when he’d fucked up this bad already, when the thing he wanted the most and deserved the least was for Tom to trust him.

So he’d agreed to shred the Cruises documents for Tom, when it was Thanksgiving, when he hadn’t eaten a single meal all day, had just driven twelve hours from Canada.

Greg drifted around the apartment, waiting for Tom to give him the all-clear to leave. He wished he could go ahead and go so he might make it back in time to eat, but Tom had just shook his head vaguely when he’d asked, told Greg he’d give him the signal. And whatever—if this was his penance, he’d do it how Tom wanted him to.

Greg glanced over at him occasionally, expectantly, but Tom for the most part pointedly ignored him. Tom was keeping busy hovering near Shiv, who was in turn for the most part pointedly ignoring him. Tom had dressed up all nice though, in a thin black turtleneck and slacks. Even though Tom seemed to be kind of avoiding him Greg was mollified by the fact that he was too distracted to notice Greg's staring. He tried not to be too obvious in any case, but was he just supposed to not notice the way Tom's turtleneck framed his jaw, the way the soft fabric clung to his chest, his broad shoulders?

Marcia’s son showed up, and he was kind of hot, in a distant, uninterested sort of way, and Greg couldn’t deny he’d tried to make Tom a little jealous by asking, in his most awestruck voice, who he was the second he’d stepped out of the elevator. Tom hadn’t seemed to make anything of it, but later when they passed the guy together in a doorway, Tom shook his hand gruffly like he was some kind of baseball dad comparing testosterone levels via grip strength.

Greg had maybe even made a new friend—Connor’s . . . girl? Who was maybe a prostitute but also put forward a frankly compelling answer to his favorite ice-breaker question about toothed predators. She seemed chill, before Tom showed up next to him, shoulders squared prim under his turtleneck, glanced irritably between him and Willa, and towed him off by the elbow to send him off on his mission.

In the entryway, Tom stood close to him, and handed him a slip of paper listing the boxes he was supposed to get out of storage for shredding.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Greg asked.

Tom rolled his eyes. “Greg. Those are the box numbers, I just told you.”

“No, no—the paper? Like, it has your handwriting on it? Do you want me to eat it or burn it afterwards or what?”

Tom looked away, pensive.

“I mean, I could, like, slip it into somebody’s pocket on the street?” Greg said.

“Christ,” Tom said, rubbing his face. “It’s fine, Greg. Just throw it away when you get back. Not a big deal, okay?” He set his hand on Greg’s shoulder, guiding him toward the elevator, but Greg resisted. Before he could second-guess himself he started talking.

“Tom—hey, hold up, man. I gotta show you something.”

“What, Greg? It better not be your dick. Don’t even try to seduce me out of this, because, look: first of all, it would never work, and second of all, this little assignment isn’t even enough of a _thing_ that I’d consider taking you seriously.”

“What? No, dude. It’s not my dick. It’s just—can I see your phone?” Greg held out his hand.

"Why? What's wrong with yours, Greg? I'm not running a phone booth here."

"I need the internet. I don't have, like, a functioning data plan right now? Please?"

Tom reluctantly handed his phone over, and Greg opened Instagram in Safari, the only browser Tom seemed to have. He searched up Nate, trying to ignore Tom's fingers tapping on his crossed arms.

“Greg. Are you stalling?”

“I’m not—just, here,” he said, handing Tom his phone, Shiv’s face bright in the center of the screen. 

“What the fuck is this, Greg? I don’t want to see this,” Tom said, staring right at it.

“I found this—the other day, I was just on Instagram, and I found this guy? Nate? And he has these pictures of Shiv?” He leaned in close, trying not to notice the clean scent of Tom’s skin through the thin soft fabric of his sweater. Greg reached across Tom to scroll to the next post, the selfie of Shiv and Nate together. Then he dropped his hand, looked up at Tom. “See? And the date, at the top there? Last month? Like, I don’t want to interfere in your relationship, obviously, but, as a friend—”

“As a _friend_ , Greg? Are we friends? Because this doesn’t feel like a very fucking friendly thing to do, implying that my partner is, is . . .” Tom drifted off, scrolling back up to the first photo.

“I’m not trying to imply anything, man, I promise. I just thought, perhaps, it’d be something you might want to be aware of?” Greg wrapped his hand loose around Tom’s on the phone, watching his face. But Tom jostled his hand off, took the phone back, and shoved it in his pocket.

“Well, thank you, Greg. I’m aware.”

“Listen, I’m sorry, man, but—”

“Fuck off and do your job, Greg.” Tom walked out without looking back.

“Okay,” Greg said softly, and blew out a shaky breath. Could’ve gone worse.

* * *

After dinner Tom caught Shiv in the kitchen for a moment alone.

“Hey,” he said, squeezing her upper arm. “Thanks, you know, for still inviting me to this. It was a little late to make the trip back to Saint Paul.”

“No, of course,” she said, smiling up at him and pulling her elbow out of his grasp. “You’re always welcome, Wambsgans. And it’s not like we’re broken up, so, you know.” She poured herself a glass of wine, held up the bottle with a raised eyebrow to offer him some.

“No, right, of course not,” he said, accepting a pour. “Actually, I was wondering, Shiv, if you had just a tiny minute to talk about something?”

She nodded, gesturing at him to go on.

“Ah, okay. So Greg showed me . . . I mean, I just happened to be on Instagram the other day—”

Shiv laughed. “Since when do you use social media? Cyberstalking me, Wambsgans?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Tom said, smiling, touching his lip. “But I did happen to see, well, a few photos of you, with a guy named, ah, Nate? And so I was just wondering, you know—I’m sure he’s a coworker, or—”

“Yeah, exactly,” Shiv said. “What else would he be, Tom?”

“I mean, the photos just seemed a bit . . . intimate?”

“What are you implying?”

“Well, there are . . . there are vibes.”

“And what are the vibes?” she asked, turning away to sift through a forgotten plate of hors d’oeuvres. “Nate’s a coworker, Tom.”

“Sure, of course,” Tom said. “But . . . but are you fucking him, Shiv? Because they’re not mutually exclusive.”

Shiv leaned back against the counter, looking away and shaking her head in frustration or disbelief at his question.

“Do you really want to do this right now, Tom? On fucking Thanksgiving?”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. But I think, yeah, I do, actually.”

She was quiet, the color rising across her cheeks and her mouth the way it always did after a glass of wine, and Tom hated that he noticed—on another day he might’ve seen it and thought her pretty, as always, but today it struck him as something to file away, to remember, because maybe after this conversation it wouldn’t be quotidian anymore.

All at once Shiv said, “I’m not cut out for this.” She glanced at him, blew out a breath.

“Right,” Tom said. “But . . . for what, exactly?”

“For this whole—one and done, tie it up and cross it off and stick with it forever bullshit. I’m fucking stifled, by, by—” She looked at him again, her face breaking, and looked down at the floor.

“By me?” Tom asked.

“No, Tom,” she said, stepping forward. She reached out like she was going to take his wrist, loosen his arms where they were tight across his chest, but she didn’t. “Not by you. Just this. Monogamy. The lifelong romance thing. I’m not cut out for it. I don’t have the fucking—bones for it. I'm not a goddamn goose. I’ve been so upbeat these past few weeks. Not—” She held out a hand to cut him off when he tilted his head, started to speak. “Not because I was away from you. Just because I could be myself with other people. Not—not tied down.”

“Tied down.”

“Yeah, tied down. Not held back, you know? I need this, Tom. And I love you, but I can’t do this the old fucking combo TV-and-VCR way. I’m not meant to be part of a boxed set.”

“No. No, I guess not,” Tom said. He touched his mouth, anxious, watched Shiv’s gaze follow his fingers before she looked away almost embarrassed, and forced himself to relax his hands at his sides. They both knew it was a tell. “I think . . . I think that maybe I am, though, Shiv. Part of a boxed set.”

“Oh, Tom. I know,” she said. “But I don’t think it can be me.”

He nodded, slow. He wanted step toward her, wanted to wrap his arms around her, but it felt like that might break him just then—was it worse to touch her knowing he couldn’t ever again? Or worse not to do it, when it might’ve been his last chance? It turned out that it didn’t really matter, because he couldn’t bear another rejection.

“I think I’m gonna go,” he said, cursing himself for saying it so quietly. He took a slow step sideways, toward the door out to the hall, and when she didn’t stop him he turned and hurried out, hoping everyone else was caught up in small talk and nowhere near the elevator.

He’d gotten his coat from the attendant and had just started to let himself relax, knowing he was almost out, when the attendant opened the elevator and he realized someone was in it. He panicked—but it was just Greg.

“Hey,” Tom said, trying to smooth his face but feeling his despair seep through. “All good?”

“All done,” Greg said.

“I don’t wanna know, and don’t ever tell me,” Tom said, “but well done.” He patted Greg on the shoulder, and Greg smiled a little, his eyebrows rising a fraction.

“I’m fucking starving,” Greg said. “I’m gonna see if there are leftovers.”

“I’m sure there are, buddy. I’m headed home, though.”

“Oh,” Greg said, his mouth quirking down, head tilting. “Is everything alright?”

“Long night. We didn’t all get to spend it holed up in the solace of the trenches, yeah?” Tom forced himself to laugh, but Greg just blinked at him. Tom could've leaned into him then, could've hugged him, and he knew Greg would've let him.

"I talked to Shiv," he said instead.

"Oh, fuck," Greg said. "I mean—"

"It's fine, Greg. I mean, we split, you know. But it's fine. Really. Thanks for, uh, looking out for me. I guess."

"Sure, man. I'm sorry, you know, about . . . all that."

Tom nodded, stepped toward the elevator. Why couldn't Greg have chosen then to force one of his notably anti-Roy hugs on him?

“I’ll catch you, um, on Monday, then?” Greg said.

“Obviously, Greg.” Tom patted him on the shoulder again, a little more forcefully this time. “Après-weekend, my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty to lyss for stepping in as my impromptu plot-inconsistency consultant when I was mid-panic last night lol. i owe u 1,000 cozy sweaters <3
> 
> I consider it a crime against me personally that the majority of the shots in "I Went to Market" were framed to cut out Tom's tits


	8. The Not-Date

Tom slunk through the office, looking for Greg. His confidence had taken a bit of a hit in the days since the breakup, and the black eye wasn’t helping. So far it had escaped comment, but it was still early in the day—only a matter of time. He really didn’t want to explain what had actually happened, which was that he’d been moping about Shiv and gotten sad-drunk solo on wine and tripped over Mondale and hit his face on corner of the kitchen counter, but he hadn’t yet thought of a believable lie to tell instead.

He found Greg set up with a laptop in the breakroom. “Hey, hey, guy,” Tom said, poking his head in.

“Hey, hey.”

“Everything okay, Greg?” With the breakup on his mind he hadn’t found much mental energy to wonder about how Greg’s little Thanksgiving chore had gone. Not that he wanted to know the details—but a good supervisor would check in, right?

“Yeah. Yeah. Sure,” Greg said unconvincingly. He had been a little sullen that week, now that Tom thought about it.

“You sure?” he asked, and Greg nodded, looking back down at his screen. So maybe he was feeling a little abused about the shredding. As far as Tom was concerned, Greg deserved it for ratting him out about the press conference, and now they were even. But he didn’t want Greg to feel _too_ low about the whole thing.

“Good. Good, good. You know, you can talk to me about anything. You know?” Tom said, sitting down next to him.

“Oh, yeah. Well, I . . . thanks.” Greg looked up at him finally, said, “I was just about to go for a coffee run, if you . . . ?”

“Oh god, Greg, no, no. You’re on your own for that now, buddy.”

“What, did something, uh . . . ?”

Tom sighed. “You know that dinner I had the other night?”

“Um.”

“So it was supposed to be with my little secret admirer, you know, the one from the coffee shop?”

“Oh, no shit?” Greg said, sitting forward in his chair.

“Yeah. No show, though. Got stood up, pal. So, you know, no more coffee runs for me.”

“Oh man. That, uh, that sucks, dude.” He did look genuinely disappointed, which Tom felt touched by.

“Anyway, though. I am, shall we say, astoundingly free of plans and folks to make them with, apart from you, old buddy old pal, so, tonight, why don’t I take you out?”

Maybe it was a bad idea to invite Greg out—maybe it was overstepping with someone who was no longer family and who was supposed to be an employee, but Tom honestly didn’t give a fuck. Greg was the closest thing he had to a friend, Greg had watched his back about Shiv (as much as he hated to even think about that), and Tom was fucking exhausted of spending every night by himself.

He didn’t _really_ start to second-guess himself until Greg didn’t even respond to the invitation. “No?” Tom asked.

Greg looked up at him. “What, for real?” he said. “I thought you were gonna say ‘take you out and beat the shit out of you,’ or ‘take you out and put a bullet through your dumb fuckin’ brain,’ or something else, you know, funny like that.”

“No, Greg, I’m not some beast. Come on, let’s go out. Yeah? Just you and me. Bros’ night.”

Greg nodded, grinning, said, “Alright.” And so after work they went out.

* * *

Tom realized he was going a little hard on the wine, but he was just so exuberant to finally have good company. It was just so much _fun_ with Greg, who laughed at his jokes and seemed so awed by the food and by the mélange of delights wealth could afford. Even so, it was a little difficult not to get maudlin; he’d stepped in so much shit lately and hadn’t had really anyone to commiserate about it with.

“You know that fucking barista stood me up?” Tom said.

“Their loss,” Greg said, smiling. Tom laughed it off.

“And I can’t fucking believe Shiv was cheating on me, Greg, maybe the whole fucking time. Can you fucking believe that, man?”

“I’m sorry about that, dude. I really didn’t know whether to show you those pictures or not, you know, but—”

“No, no, Greg,” Tom said. “You were right to do it. It felt like shit, I gotta tell you, but it’s for the best. I hope.”

“I hope so too.”

Tom finished his glass, gestured to their waiter for more. “I feel so fucking pathetic,” he said to Greg. “Like, I’m a fucking middle-aged wino sad sack with a black eye from getting too drunk to stand up straight in my own non-child-proofed home, and now here I am on a dinner date with Cousin Fucking Greg. You know? A month ago I would’ve been here with Siobhan Roy. _Shiv Roy._ ”

“Well, I’m basically a Roy too, you know, but. . . . But yeah, that—that must be, like, so awful for you,” Greg said, poking at a stem of asparagus with his fork. “Stuck here with little old Greg.”

“No, Greg, that’s not what I meant,” Tom said in a rush. He started to reach across the table to touch Greg’s arm and held himself back. Maybe he was overthinking it—maybe the wine was going to his head, but it felt like it’d be too much just then, the touch.

“No. It’s just bizarre is all, right?” Tom said. “I like you though, Greg. I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t. I feel like you and I, we have a bond, you know?”

Greg looked up at him appraisingly. “Is this about the thing, Tom? Is that what this is?” Tom shook his head, but Greg kept talking: “Because it’s done, right? I’m not going to say anything. I’m complicit now, right? Infected. Just like you.”

“No, Greg. I just know what it’s like, to be in your place. And I just want you to know I’m here for you, man. You seem so down in the office lately.”

“Do I?” Greg said, his shoulders hunched. “Sorry. A lot going on I guess.” He straightened up to smile at the waiter who refilled their glasses.

“You can tell me, you know,” Tom said, once she’d wandered away.

“Yeah, like. Maybe not right now, though,” Greg said. “Maybe we can just, you know, circumnavigate our respective sadnesses for now?”

Tom knew a little something about circumnavigating sadnesses. This was something he could manage. “Alright, Greg. Listen. I know just the thing. We’re going to get royally fucked up tonight, buddy. Just wait until you see where I take you next. Gold-leaf vodka. Sequined miniskirts as far as the eye can see. Yeah?”

Greg smiled a little. “Gold leaf? Like the real deal? Can you taste it, or does it just, like, get stuck in your teeth?”

“You’ll see, Greg. Just wait.”

* * *

When Tom woke up the next morning, he was still fully dressed, basically plastered to the sheets in boozy sweat. The sunlight coming through the open blinds was clawing at his eyes—he had a hangover that would knock out a goat in heat. He stumbled out of bed briefly to close the blinds and fell back in, closing his eyes. His head throbbed too loudly to sleep any more.

He tried to remember what he and Greg had gotten up to once they’d left the restaurant—Jesus, Greg was probably passed out somewhere in his apartment right now, wasn’t he? He was certain Greg had come back with him. He remembered standing in the kitchen with him, watching him scarf down oven-baked chips and slather peanut butter on bananas. He remembered standing behind him, staring at his back. He remembered his arm slinging itself around Greg’s waist, remembered resting his face against Greg’s shoulder blade.

“God, Greg, I should’ve just fucking asked you to be my date the other night when the barista ding-dong-ditched,” he’d said. “Ha! How would that’ve looked, the two of us? Would’ve been a hell of a lot better night, though. You know? Did you ever end up finding your date?”

“Nah, never did. Guess I got stood up too.”

“Well, we’re perfect for each other then, eh, buddy? A couple of loser fucking soulmates. A matched set of loser testicles in a pathetic fucking scrotum.”

Greg had turned around then, leaning back against the counter, his mouth full of peanut butter, and Tom had lost his balance a little around Greg’s feet, catching himself with a hand on Greg’s chest. He remembered trying to catch his breath, standing there like that, staring up into Greg’s alcohol-flushed face, and feeling like his ribs had turned to concrete around his lungs. Greg had looked down at him, blinked thoughtfully, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and held him against his chest. And Tom had just stood there, too soothed and too drunk, honestly, to be shocked, while Greg crunched away on chips with his other hand, perfectly casual.

Tom should’ve stopped drinking earlier. He should’ve stopped drinking before they’d even left the restaurant, maybe. He winced, even lying there alone in the dim morning light, remembering how he’d tripped up the stairs at the club, how Greg had steadied him with a hand on his hip.

He remembered Greg getting sleepy, leaning against him on the couch after putting on some late-night cartoon. He remembered how badly he’d wanted just to let himself fall asleep there too, next to Greg, instead of dragging himself to his own bed, instead of being responsible and adult and not needy at all, not desperate at all. Thank god he’d dredged up a lick of self-respect and stood up, however wobbly, covered Greg with a blanket, and gone to bed.

Tom had been known to get a little clingy when he drank—Shiv had always found it embarrassing, when he got gregarious about how much he was in love with her and when he hugged her and squeezed her and couldn’t stop himself touching her, no matter where they were. So he’d tried to train himself not to. He was faintly embarrassed about how much he’d let himself go, and with Greg of all people. He couldn't piece the whole night together, after the restaurant; who knew what else he'd said? At least Greg hadn’t seemed terribly bothered by it, in the moments he could recall.

Anyway, Tom was going through a breakup. It was perfectly understandable for him to be a little clingy, a little touch-starved. It wasn’t like he was going doe-eyed over Greg specifically. He was just rebounding, and Greg just happened to be the person there to catch him.

Finally Tom dragged himself out of bed and showered, put on a pair of chinos and a brushed cotton shirt. He wandered out to the kitchen: chip crumbs and peanut butter spoons and food wrappers everywhere, but no sign of Greg.

Tom tidied the kitchen, trying not to think about how he’d stood there hours ago, clinging to Greg while he made the mess in the first place. He latticed squares of turkey bacon to bake, made espresso on the stove, sliced bread for toast, and was heating a pan to fry eggs when Greg trudged downstairs in yesterday’s clothes.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Tom said.

“Coffee,” Greg said, voice rough. “I think too much edible gold hurt my tummy.”

“That's the booze, Greg. Sit down for a minute and eat. Coffee on an empty stomach isn’t going to do you any favors.”

Greg slumped onto a barstool on the other side of the kitchen island, draped his torso over the counter, rested his greasy face on the freshly cleaned marble. He sat there silent until Tom set a plate and coffee mug down next to his head. Greg took a sip of the Americano Tom had made for him and grimaced, and Tom rolled his eyes, brought over half-and-half and the sugar canister.

Then Greg bit into his sandwich and thunked his head back down on the counter. “Oh my god, fuck. What is in that?” he said, mouth full. “That is _toothsome_.”

“It’s just a fried egg sandwich, Greg. Sit up or you’ll get indigestion.” Tom turned around to hide his smirk at the praise and put together his own sandwich: toast, turkey bacon, egg, balsamic onion marmalade, and sliced tomato. It was Tom’s specialty breakfast sandwich, and he basked in the way Greg scarfed down his own.

“Can’t get that at fucking Applebee’s, huh, Greg?” Tom asked, sitting down next to him. Greg just shook his head and ate.

When Greg finished minutes later, he sat back with his coffee cup and said, “Hey, man, remember how I told you about the hot water heater in my new place not really being 100 percent fully functional?”

“I don’t inscribe every detail of your daily life on the stone tablets of my mind, Greg.”

“No, sure, obviously, and that’s fine—I just, so I’ve been showering at the office, actually? And I’d rather, perhaps, not have to go in today. I’m just feeling a little hungover, you know, and I think a shower would help, but I also think that a forty-floor elevator ride likely would not.”

“Okay, do you have a point, Tolstoy?”

“Yeah, so, like, big favor to ask? Can I use your shower?”

“Jesus, Greg. That’s it? Yeah. Go ahead. There’s towels in there. Do you need a change of clothes?”

“Oh, man, oh my god, thank you so much, dude. This is, like, a huge relief, seriously. I appreciate this so sincerely. No on the clothes, though—I keep a spare set in my backpack.” Greg stood up, sidestepped toward the hall. “So, like, I’m just gonna . . .”

“Hold on, Greg, you’ve been showering at the office? Like, the office gym? Locker rooms are _vile_ , Greg. You’re going to get athlete’s foot. Do you already have athlete’s foot? I don’t need you leaving foot spores all over my bathroom.”

“I mean I keep, like, shower sandals at the office? But—”

“ _Shower sandals_ , Greg? Waystar is not a summer camp. It’s a world-leading media conglomerate. You can’t just flip-flop around in discount fucking shower sandals like you just took a quick dip in an amoeba-infested lake and now you’ve gotta rinse off on the fly before you head off to choir practice with the other little boys. Just—look. Collect your biodegradable soap and your fucking shower cap and come stay at my place, yeah? You can stay with me until you get your whatever fixed.”

“Oh, what? For real, dude?”

“Of course, Greg. I’m not the tooth fairy. Same room as you were in last night, it’s yours for now. Just don’t two-time my shower with the office locker room, seriously. I don’t want Waystar’s sloppy fungus seconds. That’s my one condition.”

“Dude. Thank you so much.” Greg hugged Tom where he was sitting on his barstool, shoving Tom’s face into his chest. He smelled like day-old sweat laced with ethanol, not sexy, objectively disgusting, and yet Tom felt inexplicably off-kilter. He coasted one hand up Greg’s spine, ignoring the deep breath that shifted Greg’s chest under his face, and slapped his shoulder roughly.

“ _Greg_. Christ, you’re rank. You can thank me by showering," Tom said, leaning back on the barstool.

Greg pulled away just enough to look down at him, muttered _sorry_ but still grinned.

Tom finished his breakfast and his Americano while Greg showered. Greg ought to have his number, Tom realized, so he could just call and ask when he needed things, like a place to shower that wouldn’t give him a foot fungus. Greg had left his sad little phone on the counter, and Tom picked it up, flipped it open to send himself a text: “this is tom on Greg’s phone,” he typed out, grimacing as he tried to remember how to use T9.

What an awful experience, typing on that thing, Tom thought, setting the phone back down. Greg needed a new one, something with a full keyboard. And email capabilities. It was nearly impossible to get ahold of him off-hours, because he literally didn’t have access to his email account outside the office. Convenient for Greg, maybe, but not at all convenient for Tom.

Tom pulled his own phone out of his pocket. Just the one notification, sadly, from himself.

> **Maybe: Greg**
> 
> this is tom on Greg’s phone

He swiped the notification to open it and save Greg’s contact. And then he frowned, confused—there was more than just the one text in the conversation. He scrolled up, trying to piece together when he might’ve texted Greg before, and why he’d forgotten about it. Maybe he’d already done this last night, and had been too drunk to remember.

> Tom: What just happened? Did I just get stood up by someone I’ve never even met?
> 
> _Maybe: Greg: i’m so sorry, like rly gravest apologies dude_
> 
> Tom: “Dude”? What the fuck is this? Who are you?
> 
> _Maybe: Greg: im just sorry. i couldnt make it. maybe we could reschedule_
> 
> Tom: I think it’s a bit late for that.
> 
> _Maybe: Greg: no sure yeah_
> 
> _ok_
> 
> _i get it_
> 
> _i want to meet u but i get it, i fucked up_
> 
> _again im sorry_
> 
> Tom: I can’t fucking believe this. Fuck off. Don’t contact this number again.

What the fuck. What the _fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to god you all remember [T9](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T9_\(predictive_text\)) because if you don't I will feel very old lol
> 
> (giving our boy tom a little respite from the internalized homophobia here. maybe I don't need to note that, given that you probably aren't expecting verisimilitude from a fic that started with such a ridiculous premise lol, but i guess this is just to clarify that the omission is intentional)


	9. cornered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've put *** at the beginning and end of the smut section if you want to skip it!

Moments after Greg turned off the shower Tom was banging on the bathroom door.

“Get out here, you lanky ass-clown,” Tom yelled.

“What—what? Tom? What’s—” Greg rushed to dry off and dug through his backpack for clothes.

Tom rattled the doorhandle. Thank god Greg had learned his lesson at the suit store and locked it.

Tom’s voice was low and close, like he was pressing his face against the door: “I said, _Get. The fuck. Out here. Greg._ Fucking got it?”

“Alright, alright. Just—just give me one second. Let me, like, attire myself, dude.” He pulled on boxers, jeans, wincing at the fabric sticking to his still-damp skin. He rooted around for a shirt while Tom prattled on, but came up emptyhanded.

“I don’t give a single rat fuck about your attire, you lying sack of horseshit.” What the fuck had Tom found out? Greg had left his phone out there, but he’d deleted all the texts, hadn’t he? Was this about the press conference thing? Shiv? But the pictures of her and Nate were real—he hadn’t been lying about those.

“Get out here. It’s not my fucking dignity on the line, Greg—you think I care if you’ve got your goddamn Sears Roebuck shirt buttoned up straight?”

Greg yanked open the door, exasperated—hair wet and uncombed, jeans unbuttoned, no shirt. “What the fuck is happening right now, dude?”

Tom had sounded furious moments before, but now that Greg had finally gotten the door open to talk to him he just stood there, silent, staring. Greg slunk past him into the hall, not liking the feeling of being cornered in the bathroom.

“What the fuck, Greg? What the _fuck._ It was you the whole time? _You_ sexy-texted me? _You_ fucking stood me up, Greg?” Tom said, scrambling to get back in front of Greg before he could escape down the hall.

“Sexy-texted? Stood you—dude, I didn’t stand you up—”

“You did, Greg! You fucking left me at the restaurant to make an ass of myself! Did Shiv set you up for this? Huh? Did she hire you to spy on me? Are you that desperate for money?” Greg edged back toward the bathroom as Tom ranted, thinking maybe he could grab his backpack, but Tom stayed two steps ahead, crowding him so he couldn’t get away.

“No, no, I promise, Tom, we talked about this—”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Greg. Is it Logan? Is he trying to get dirt on me?” Tom said, his voice high and panicked. Greg had decided it’d be easier just to stand there and take it, and his stillness seemed to soothe a little of Tom’s agitation. At least he stopped glancing around frantically like he was trying to figure out where Greg was going to dart off to next.

“Tom, it’s not—”

“Shut the _fuck_ _up_ , Greg. I can’t fucking believe this, I really can’t. Cousin Fucking Greg fucking pranking me this entire goddamn time, and I had no clue. You set me up for this, you piece of shit, didn’t you? You wrote that number on my cup—”

“Truth be told, yes, I did, but—”

“—and I’m sure you had the whole fucking thing planned out, huh? Operation Fuck Over Tom Wambsgans. Operation Eviscerate Tom Wambsgans, what the fuck ever. Tell me what you called it, Greg. Did you have a cute little mission name?”

“Tom,” Greg said, watching him pace a tight three-step circuit. Greg took a step toward him, hands held out wide and unthreatening.

“Operation Get Tom to Humiliate Himself on a Live Fucking Phone Call? Did you record that, Greg? Do you have a tape squirreled away somewhere to use against me when you want a fucking raise?”

“ _Tom_.” Another step closer, until they were almost chest to chest, and Tom was forced to stand still or shoulder past Greg. He stood still. His cheeks were red, his eyes bright and watery in distress, and apart from turning his face away from Greg, shaking his head, Tom didn’t acknowledge how close he’d moved.

“Fuck you, Greg. How could you do this to me? And it _was_ you who ratted me out to Gerri about the press conference. Wasn’t it? You overgrown rodent. You fucking Komodo dragon, poisoning me with your sad eyes and just waiting for me to humiliate myself to death so you can replace me. Huh?”

“Tom, just—”

“Do you have a Post-It, Greg? A fountain pen? Because the counts are adding up. I think I need to make some notes to keep track of all your bullshit. I might need to take a Microsoft Excel workshop so I can make a goddamn spreadsheet.”

“Tom,” Greg whispered, taking one last step, and wrapping his arms around Tom’s shoulders. Tom stood stiff, finally quiet, but Greg could feel the tension in his shoulders, his chest.

Tom set his hands on Greg’s hips, over the pockets of his jeans, and pushed feebly. “Get the fuck off me, Greg,” he said.

“No,” Greg said, holding him tighter, staring at the wall above his head. “Listen. Like, I know I fucked up.”

“No shit.”

“But nobody told me to, really, no one did. It was all me, man, please believe me. I just . . . I don’t want this to, like, fuck up our business relationship”—Tom snorted at that and Greg ignored him—“but I really like you? I guess? And I wanted to ask you out but you were with my cousin and I also didn’t want, like, my position to be terminated, you know, so . . . So I just like you. I guess that’s it.”

Tom didn’t respond, but Greg felt the stiffness in his shoulders loosen.

“So, I just need to know, like . . . could you just give me some kind of indication if that’s, you know, amenable, to you?” Greg said.

Ordinarily Greg had to fold himself over to hug people, so the only body contact was really in his hands on their shoulders and their hands on his back, if that. But he’d pressed his body against Tom’s from shoulder to hip, felt Tom’s warmth radiating into his own chest. Tom’s eyes were level with Greg’s nose; if he’d wanted to, Tom could’ve turned and rested his head on Greg’s shoulder.

So when Tom spoke his voice was quiet, so close to Greg’s ear: “Do you have some kind of official form you’d like me to fill out, Gregory?”

“I—no, but . . .”

Tom’s hands slipped up, broad and warm, to Greg’s bare ribs. He pushed more firmly this time, but when Greg leaned back neither of them let go.

Tom looked up into his face. “You’re serious,” he said, incredulous. Greg nodded, and Tom blinked, and then Greg stepped forward, crowded him back against the wall, and took his face in his hands and kissed the breath out of him, firm and lingering. When he pulled away Tom’s mouth hung open, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Okay,” Tom said, gaze shifting over his face, his breath coming shallow.

“Okay? Like, _okay, it’s good_ , that kind of okay? Or like, _I forgive you, Greg_ , okay? Or . . .” Tom opened his mouth as if to respond, but then he just looked at Greg’s mouth, and wrapped a warm hand around the back of his neck, and pulled him down into another kiss. This one was softer, more timid, and when Greg pulled away to take a wavery breath, Tom leaned up into him, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Tom looked up at him, said, “Okay, Greg?” Greg nodded, already feeling himself drawn forward into another kiss. He slid his mouth open over Tom’s lower lip, brushed over the thin scar above the top one, and then Tom grabbed his face and kissed him hard, licking into his mouth.

Tom slid his hand up Greg’s spine and Greg felt himself melt against him. He bent his knees to ease the strain on Tom’s neck, deepening the kiss, and when he rolled his hips forward Tom exhaled harsh through his nose, wrapped an arm around Greg’s neck to hold him close.

Tom’s mouth fell open, ruddy and abused, when they stopped for a breath. “Fuck, Greg,” he said. “What the fuck.”

***

Greg pressed his face into Tom’s neck, traced the back of his fingers hesitantly over Tom's hardening erection. “Do you want—um, can I blow you?” Greg asked. “I can make it like you said on the phone. Like, if you want—if you wanted.”

Tom’s arm tightened around his shoulders, and Greg felt Tom’s throat bob against his mouth.

“You can, like—you can say no,” Greg said quietly.

“No,” Tom said, shifting his feet. “I mean—no, ah, ‘no’ as in I don’t want to say no.”

Greg smiled, said, “Yeah?” He pressed a kiss open-mouthed against Tom’s throat, let his teeth just graze the skin, and Tom exhaled shakily.

“Yeah,” Tom said.

Moments later, Greg slipped down to kneel, pulled up Tom’s shirt to kiss the soft side of his belly and the smooth skin above his hipbone. Greg paused with a hand on his belt, looked up to see Tom staring down at him, and smiled when Tom quirked that eyebrow.

When he slid his mouth slow onto Tom’s cock, looking up at him wide eyed, Tom’s knees went weak. His back scraped down the wall until he was sitting on the floor in front of Greg, and Greg bent to kiss him.

“You taste like lemons,” he said against Tom’s chest, on his way back down to his dick. “Delectable.”

He looked up into Tom’s face, licked the head of his cock, and Tom cursed when Greg hummed at the taste of him. He took Tom’s cock full into his mouth, holding his hips, and Tom slid his fingers loose into Greg’s hair. Greg tried to remember everything Tom had imagined on the phone: Tom groaned quietly when Greg let his teeth scrape gently over his skin, when he licked to soothe it after.

When he was close, Tom tugged lightly at his hair, but Greg sunk down as deep as he could, rubbing Tom’s chest under his shirt. Tom pulled harder, said, “Off,” and the sting on Greg's scalp jolted straight to his dick, his moan high and louder than he’d expected with his mouth newly empty. Tom braced his hand tight in that handful of Greg’s hair, holding him upright while Greg stroked him quickly with one hand.

Cum splattered up Tom’s shirt as he rutted his hips, and Greg tried to lean forward to catch some on his tongue, but Tom held him back by the hair. After the last jolt of his hips Tom finally let go, slumped back, and Greg unbuttoned his shirt, pushed it off his shoulders, rubbed his chest and ribs while he kissed him.

“Was that good?” Greg asked, clambering over Tom’s legs to lean back against the wall next to him.

“I almost jizzed all over your face the second you looked up at me like that with my cock in your mouth,” Tom said.

“You, uh, you could have? You didn’t let me have any,” Greg said. “I earned that.”

“What, the cum?” Tom said, surprised, and then he straightened out his face. “No, you didn’t. You haven’t earned a single fucking thing, Greg, not after all the shit I’ve stepped in for you these past few months. You’re lucky I’m even considering reciprocating.”

“Yeah?”

“I said _considering_ , Greg,” Tom said, standing up. “Stay here.” He gathered up his clothes, went down the hall toward his bedroom. Greg sat there for a minute, unzipped his jeans and adjusted his dick, shifting his hips up against the pressure of his hand. He stared brainless at the wall, picturing the way Tom had sat naked here moments before. He wanted to rub his face all over Tom’s chest, wanted to feel Tom’s hips rutting up underneath him.

It wasn’t really fair, right, for Tom to just leave him sitting alone in a hallway with an aching hard-on when Greg had just given him a fantasy fucking blowjob? If Tom was going to reciprocate, he might rather it be in the bedroom than on the floor in the hall. So he followed, found Tom pulling sweatpants out of a drawer. Greg pried them gently out of his hands and put them back in the dresser.

“I like you like this,” Greg said, hugging him, rutting helplessly against his bare hip.

Tom pushed him away halfheartedly. “I told you to stay.”

“I know, but it wasn’t very nice, like, being stuck out there all by myself?” He laughed a little, nervous at Tom’s change in tone.

“Who said it was supposed to be nice, Greg?” Tom raised an eyebrow at him, but then he grinned, broke out in a loud laugh. “Relax, man. I was coming right back. Although you would’ve deserved to get stood up, yeah?”

Greg shrugged. “I mean, maybe, but I didn’t actually—”

“Shut up, Greg. Take off your jeans.”

Greg left his jeans on the floor, stood next to the bed, waiting for instructions. “I’m just saying, like, I didn’t actually stand you up. I showed, you know? I just—”

“Greg. Do you want to keep being mouthy or do you want to get off?”

“Sorry.”

“Good,” Tom said. He sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard. “Boxers off too. Come here,” he said, beckoning Greg up with a wagging finger.

Greg straddled his lap, wired from feeling so exposed, so turned on, when he’d been wanting this for months and growing increasingly convinced he’d never get it. Tom pulled him by the back of his neck into a kiss, warm and rough, and Greg braced his hands on Tom’s shoulders, let his forehead fall down to his chest, when Tom began to stroke his dick.

Tom ruffled his hair, tugged a handful of it until Greg sat up to look at him.

“You like that, buddy? When I pull your hair?” he asked, and Greg nodded. Tom reached over to his nightstand, brought one hand back slick with lube, and braced the other at the base of Greg’s scalp. Greg rutted his hips down when Tom sped up his strokes, legs feeling overlong, coltish, bent around Tom’s hips.

“Would you let me fuck you, Greg?” Tom asked, sliding his hand farther up to cradle the back of Greg’s head, and this time when Greg nodded Tom grasped his hair, sent the sting coursing down his spine.

“I know you—we can’t, right now, but—” Greg paused to curse when Tom slid his fist tight over the head of his cock. “—but could I, um, could I have your fingers?”

Tom lifted an eyebrow briefly, nodded, shifted his hips back to sit farther up, and then there was lube in Greg’s hand, slick fingers sliding warm between his cheeks, a hand gripped in his hair.

“Go on,” Tom said, one fingertip easing just slightly up into him. Greg stroked himself, working himself onto that finger, and Tom talked: “You want me inside you, Greg? You want my fat cock in your ass? Yeah?” Greg whimpered, slipping down and down.

“Another,” Greg said, and Tom yanked his head back. Greg amended: “Please?” and lifted his hips. Tom held him upright with a grasp on his hair as Greg slid back down onto his fingers, cursing a quiet litany.

“Look at you, pretty boy, taking two like that,” Tom said, curling his fingers, and Greg braced a hand on his chest, stroking himself feverishly with the other, grounded between the dull sting of Tom’s grip in his hair and the fullness of Tom’s fingers in his ass.

“Attaboy, Greg, you gonna come for me? Be a good boy.” Tom leaned forward, dragging Greg’s head back, and it felt ridiculous, being called a good boy like he was a fucking child, but it also felt _good_ , to accept that praise from Tom, without the snare of humiliation after it. He rode Tom’s fingers and jerked himself off and came hard across Tom’s chest, wordless praise murmured in his ear.

Greg’s ears rang as he slid boneless to lie down, and distantly he was aware of Tom getting out of bed and coming back, wiping him off with a warm cloth.

***

“Would you actually let me fuck you?” Tom asked, settling in on his back next to Greg, and Greg perked up a little, rolled over to his side to face him.

“Hell, yeah, man. If you, like—did you want to do this again?”

“Did _you_ want to do it again?” Tom asked, not looking at him.

“I mean, obviously. I went to all this trouble just to tell you I had a crush on you or whatever. I’m not just gonna be satisfied with, like, one handjob.”

Tom glared at him. “ _Just_ a handjob?”

“I mean, it was, like, a nice handjob. But I’m just saying. You know? I mean, right?”

“I don’t know, Greg,” he said, looking back up at the ceiling.

“You don’t know? I mean, I guess you wouldn’t, like, if this isn’t, wasn’t, you know—for you. Was it?” Greg knew he was babbling, probably not making any sense, but his brain was still half-melted from his orgasm, and there was too much at stake to put a real name to.

“Stop freaking out, Greg,” Tom said. “I like you.”

“You do?” Greg asked, and Tom looked over at him, rolled his eyes, pulled Greg over to lay across his chest.

“Yeah,” Tom said. “I do. Like you. I mean, I don’t think I realized it, maybe. Maybe that’s shitty. But you did your damnedest to distract me from yourself, yeah? With all the texting? The baristas?”

“That wasn’t, like, my intention, but. I guess, yeah.”

“I can’t believe it was you the whole time. But maybe I knew it, somehow,” Tom said. “Cousin Fucking Greg.”

“I told you maybe we were meant for each other, like—like, maybe on some level you knew it was me, you know, because of that.”

“That’s some romantic horseshit, Greg. But maybe. I think part of me at least hoped, you know, that it was you.”

“Your dick obviously did.”

“Okay, don’t get too big a head, buddy. It’s been a while, alright? The stakes were low.”

“But on the phone, too, like, it was me you were thinking of, right?”

“Yeah. I didn’t realize it, at the time, consciously. But yeah.” Tom paused, brushing Greg’s hair off his forehead. “But it seemed so unlikely. And then when you showed up at the restaurant I was just so shocked, I thought I was just imagining all the coincidences.”

“I really didn’t want to stand you up. You kinda made me, though. Actually, like, you kinda stood yourself up, if you really think about it.”

“Bit of a stretch, Greg.”

“I thought—I thought that you would be mad it was me. Or disappointed,” Greg said, wrapping his arm around Tom’s waist.

“Greg. It’s not like I would’ve made a scene about it. I’m not some trailer park villain.”

“You might have, though.”

“Fuck you,” Tom said, jostling him. Greg squeezed his waist tighter.

“I mean, I was the one who lied about it. You were expecting some bourgie coffee girl? And then I show up? I wouldn’t have blamed you for being upset.”

“You cut a pretty striking figure in that tux, Greg. I’ll admit it.” Greg smiled, blushed. Tom went on: “But you know it’s really not appropriate for that kind of place, right?”

“Yeah, well, it was that or my work suit? And I still haven’t exactly had the resources to get that cleaned? So.”

“Okay, Greg, well, put that on my agenda for next week. We’ll get thee to a dry cleaner. And I suppose you’ll need some new date clothes.”

“Is this you, like, asking me out?” Greg asked, too nervous to look up at Tom’s face.

“Maybe it is, Greg.”

“Should I put that on your agenda, too?”

“Don’t get pushy,” Tom said, but he squeezed Greg’s shoulders and with his other hand rubbed Greg’s thigh, slung across his hips. They lay there in the sleepy afternoon quiet for a few minutes, until Tom’s breath started to slow, and Greg worried he was falling asleep.

“Tom?”

Tom sighed irritably. “What, Greg?”

“You know, um, that it was me who told Gerri about the press conference, right?”

“I know,” Tom said quietly.

“I’m really sorry, man. I had the best intentions, I swear to god. I just . . . I didn’t want—”

“I know, Greg. It’s alright. I’m proud of you, if you can believe it. I would’ve done the same thing, if I were you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, buddy. It was the smart thing to do.”

“Thank you," Greg said. He rubbed his cheek on Tom's chest. "I think I’m gonna nap. Is that okay? If I nap in your bed? Should I go to the guest room?”

“God, you’re napping? You’re such a baby. I can’t believe I just fingerbanged a fucking baby in the ass.”

“ _Dude_.” Greg struggled up to look at him, horrified, but Tom pulled him back down, laughing.

“I’m _joking_ , Greg. Sleep. Just stay here. You already sweated up my sheets anyway.” He patted Greg’s head. “Hope you wake up with a sense of humor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in a classic Vanilla move I went overboard with the smut and then I didn't have space to wrap everything up so there'll be one more chapter after all 🙃
> 
> I want you to know that " _You_ sexy-texted me??" was one of the first lines I wrote of this whole thing. (My theme song for this fic is "Once in a Lifetime": "And you may find yourself in a [ridiculous ship], with a [ten(?)-chapter fic] / And you may ask yourself, 'Well... how did I get here?' / ... / And you may ask yourself, 'Am I right? Am I wrong?' / And you may say to yourself, 'My God! What have I done?'")


	10. passing by

**— a few months later —**

Greg leaned on the doorframe into Tom’s office after lunch, waiting for him to finish an email.

“Coffee run?” he asked when Tom finally looked up. Tom nodded, turned back to his computer for a minute, and stood up to collect his coat.

“You’re wearing that?” Greg said.

“Wearing what? These are my standard, office-appropriate clothes, Greg. Not that you would know about that.”

“Yeah, but like, not your coffee sweater?”

Tom rolled his eyes but took his coat back off to change into his gray cardigan. Greg smiled, and together they took the elevator down. It was spring out, still chilly but bearable.

Once they’d gotten away from the building, Tom asked, “Did you pick up the dry cleaning yet?”

“Dude, I’ve literally been either with you or at my desk all day,” Greg said.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Greg. I don’t keep track of your every fidget.”

“Also, I picked it up last week, man. And I only have like one thing in there. It’s your turn.”

“It’s not my turn, Greg. There are no turns. What am I paying you for?”

“Oh, is this an official task?” Greg asked.

“Yeah, Greg, go ahead and put it on your fucking timecard. I’ll get you a reimbursement form.” Tom rolled his eyes. “Look, I just need you to do it, buddy. I’ve got too much on my plate.”

“Dude, I write your schedule. There are so many times in the day that—”

“Okay, okay, Jesus. Fuck off about it, Greg. Let’s talk about your hot water heater, huh? How are the repairs going?”

Greg muttered vaguely, holding the door to the coffeeshop for him.

Tom turned to wait for him inside, eyebrow raised. “What was that, Greg? They still haven’t called you back? Or were they trying to order in a part from Malaysia for your extra-special vintage machine? I can’t recall.”

“Actually, you know, I’ve been kind of living on, like, a month-to-month lease? And it’s so expensive—like, even now that I’m getting an actual paycheck, it’s still really eating into my monthly disposable income?” Greg paused to order their coffee and picked back up while they stood at the end of the counter to wait: “So, you know, I was just kind of wondering—or thinking, you know, whatever—about maybe, like, what if I just ditch the old place? You know?”

“And go where, Greg?” Tom asked.

“I don’t know, like. Would I have to go somewhere else?” Greg looked around, didn’t see anyone he knew, but better safe than sorry. “Hold on,” he said, pulled out his phone. Tom picked up their drinks, and Greg shadowed close behind him to a table while he typed out a text.

> _Greg: I already have pretty much all my stuff at your place, so_

“You done playing Farm Villáge or whatever brain-melt you people play these days?” Tom asked, when Greg set his phone face-down on the table. Greg just gestured toward the phone, and Tom sighed, pulled his out of his pocket, raised an eyebrow as he read, typed a response.

> Tom: You wanna move in with me?

“I mean, I feel like I already did, kind of,” Greg said. “So yeah. I mean. It makes sense, you know, economically, and then I just thought it’d be nice, because, like, I have a few job things lined up? So, like—hold on.” Greg picked up his phone again.

“Job things? What job things, Greg?” Tom asked, impatient, and Greg held up a finger.

> _Greg: So we could maybe like finally be free of the ongoing underlying fear of HR ramifications about our relationship_
> 
> _You know?_

Tom read his text and set his phone back down without responding. “ _Greg_. What job things?”

Just then a figure in monochromatic brown drifted past their table, then backstepped toward them.

“Hey, Ken,” Greg said, peeking behind him. He didn’t see Stewy or anybody else he knew, but he was glad he and Tom had been texting the more covert particulars.

“Greg,” Kendall said, nodding at him somberly and glancing down at their table. “Hey, man. Nice phone. Welcome to fuckin' civilization. I, uh, I got you hooked up, bro. You ready to step up?”

“Oh, hell yeah, man,” Greg said, got up in a rush, bent to hug him. “Thank you again, like, so much.”

“Your first day’s Monday,” Kendall said, stepping back and reaching up to pat his shoulder. “Let me know if you need help with your tie.” He glanced between Greg and Tom, smiling dimly. “Although it looks like maybe you’ve got that taken care of. Tom. Nice to see you, man. Been a minute.”

“Kendall,” Tom said. He held out his hand to shake but Kendall didn’t seem to notice, and Tom let his hand fall to fidget with his coffee cup instead. “Ah, here for you, man. Let me know if you folks need anything up there at the big kids’ table. I’ve got the hollandaise ready.”

Kendall chuckled, sounding more tired than amused. “Thanks, Tom,” he said, already drifting away. “Greg, I’ll see you Monday, bro.”

Greg sat back down, and they watched Kendall shuffle up to the counter to order, shoulders slumped, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Well, he looks fucking terrible. Jesus,” Tom said.

“Yeah, I think, like, maybe something happened? They all went to visit their mom in England last month, and he’s been like that ever since they got back. I think he was in rehab for a bit? But, like, I don’t know exactly.”

“Either way, I think that wagon has sailed.” Tom turned back toward Greg, brow furrowed. “What’s he talking about your _hookup_ , Greg?”

“Um, that’s what I was just—well, like, he got me a job? I guess? In Digital? So on Monday I’m starting over there.”

Tom leaned across the table. “You _what_? Have you heard of a little thing called _two weeks’ notice_ , Greg? You brought me to a coffeeshop to tell me I’m going to be out of an assistant in a few _days_? You brought me to a coffeeshop, Greg, to tell me you’re ditching me? For Kendall?”

“Tom, dude. Like, I didn’t know when it was going to happen—I didn’t think it’d be this soon. And anyway, I was just trying to tell you when he came in. Like, that’s precisely what I was in the midst of saying.”

“What the fuck, Greg? Why?”

“We’ve been talking about getting out of Parks and Cruises for months, man. This is my chance.”

“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do, Greg? You’re going to leave me to eat shit all by myself?" Tom leaned back, crossing his arms. "Your Roy is showing, Greg. Zip up. Christ.”

Greg shook his head, exasperated. “I just wanna—I wanna be my own man, you know?”

“Your _own man_ , Greg?”

“Yeah, you know, like I wanna stretch myself out a little. Unfold my business wings, as it were. See how I do with other people.”

“ _Other people_ , Greg? What the fuck is this, a breakup? Are you breaking up with me right now?” Greg held out his hands, trying to shush him, but Tom barreled on, albeit in an arguably more suspicious angry whisper: “What the fuck, Greg? You wanna see other fucking people. Are you fucking joking? You wanna fuck around? Is that it? Test out the dick-filled high seas on your corporate schooner?”

“No, dude, it’s not—I just . . . I don’t know. I’ve got big shit lined up in Digital. And that’s where I’ve, like, always wanted to end up, you know? This is, like, my dream thing.”

“Well, have fun living out your big-boy dreams without me, Greg.”

“Maybe I’m just tired of being ordered around, man,” Greg said, and immediately regretted it.

Tom glared, picked up his phone, and angrily typed out a text. He slapped his phone back down on the table when he was done and crossed his arms across his chest, not looking at Greg.

> Tom: You seem to like it plenty when your dick’s out, buddy

Greg sighed, trying not to roll his eyes. At least Tom was joking a little.

“Listen, though, like—I can get the goods for you too, man. You know? Like, I’ve got the sway, with Kendall, and I’ll have a big seat in Digital. So I can get you out of Cruises too.”

“What if I don’t want you dragging me around, Greg? This just feels shitty, you know? Like I’m an afterthought. Your boring old grandpa who you have to set an Outlook reminder to invite out once a month so he won’t just rot watching _Jeopardy!_ reruns forever.”

“Could you not compare yourself to my grandpa, though?”

“Seriously, Greg. I’m supposed to be the established career man, here, you know? And you’re just leaving me out in the cold while you run off chasing promotions.”

“I’m not leaving you, though, dude.”

“Well, it sure fucking feels that way, Greg.”

“What if, like—we could get you a job somewhere else. A lateral inter-company move, per se.”

“An _inter-company move_ , Greg? Now you’re trying to shovel me out of the whole fucking building?”

“I don’t know, man. That’s how you get raises in the modern era. Outside of, like, nepotism.”

“Well, I don’t need a fucking raise, Greg, thank you very much. What I need is to not be eating a shit and prosciutto sandwich for lunch every goddamn day.”

They’d both finished their coffee by then, and when Tom stood up to leave, Greg followed.

He touched Tom’s elbow briefly on the sidewalk outside. “I know it sucks, man, like the idea of transition, or whatever? But, like, won’t it be nice to not have to worry about HR coming after us anymore?”

“Oh, Greg, fuck HR.”

“I mean, you can say that all you want, dude, but I don’t think you want to get fired any more than I do.”

“HR can go fuck themselves.”

“But, like, if we’re in different departments, or at least if I’m not technically your assistant anymore—”

“Then I have to get a new assistant, Greg. I have to train somebody new. And you can’t even fucking do it because you’re dashing off to the La-La Digital Bouncehouse next fucking week.”

“I know, but I can still help out, you know? With whoever my replacement is. And anyway, I was just saying, then, like, we don’t have to do this whole incognito thing anymore? Because we don’t have to worry about being fired? You know?”

“What, you wanna have like a fucking coming-out party at the office, Greg? I’ll schedule it for right after your departmental exit interview.”

“No. No, I’m just saying. Like, we could be open. Especially, you know, if I’m going to move in with you, like, more officially, and—”

Tom stopped in front of a bodega a block away from the Waystar building.

“Do you have a cigarette?”

“Are you—are you serious?” Greg said, patting his chest pocket for his emergency cigarette and lighter.

“Yes, _Greg_. I need a minute. And I’m not just going to fucking loiter out here on the street mooning up into your face like a besotted suitor.” He rolled his eyes when Greg pulled out the doggie bag that preserved his emergency supply and tore it open under the knot.

“You’re disgusting,” Tom said.

“Again,” Greg said, cigarette in his mouth, “not pre-pooped.” He handed Tom the lit cigarette, said, “It’s for emergencies. This is your emergency, so you can’t complain.”

Tom just shook his head, took a few puffs, grimacing. “You really want to move in with me?” he said, staring out across the street. His cheeks were red in the chill wind, the blue of his eyes bright and pale.

“Yeah, dude. I mean, like, again—I feel like I kinda did already? But if it makes you uncomfortable, like, the idea of me not having a backup, I get it.”

“It doesn’t,” Tom said. “That’s what worries me, I guess. But it feels like a lot, you know, with the job change at the same time. Don’t fuck me over, Greg.”

“Dude, I won’t. I wouldn’t.”

“Because you could. Very easily. I’ve put myself in a royally fuckable position with you, Greg.”

“I know.” Greg reached for his arm, but Tom stepped out of reach.

“Don’t.”

“Sorry,” Greg said, putting his hands in his pockets. Tom could touch him whenever he wanted, always had, but Greg didn’t have that luxury of precedent.

Tom closed his eyes, finally looked up at him, apologetic. “It’s alright. Just wait till we get home, yeah?”

Greg shook his head, took back the cigarette. “That’s the thing I hate, though, man. Not being able to touch you or, like, say I love you when I feel like it.” Tom looked back up at him sharply and he hurried on: “It’s so exhausting, right? Constantly worrying somebody might hear us say something compromising?”

He turned to stand next to Tom, shoulder to shoulder, staring out at the street. “We won’t have to do that now," Greg said. "We won’t have to be afraid of the HR guillotine.”

“It’s not just HR, Greg. Have you met Logan? Your uncle? The one who owns ATN? America’s Testosterone Network?”

“I know, I know. But if we do this, like, through the proper channels, and fill out the paperwork, and you’re not my boss anymore, then they can’t just fire us because we’re suddenly gay in public. You know? That’d be, like, very high-profile discrimination. And also—listen— _also?_ The shit with Cruises?”

Tom looked up the sidewalk over his shoulder, then glared at him. “ _No_ ,” he said.

“Okay, well, whatever—they can’t just, like, fire you now, because you know. Even if they all hated you, which they don’t—trust me when I say that Uncle Logan is just delighted that you no longer attend family gatherings with Shiv—”

“Thanks for that,” Tom said.

“—but they can’t get rid of you, because _you know_. You’ve got the dirt, man. Okay? So don’t worry about it.”

“When did my little padawan turn into such a slimeball?” Tom asked, grinning, turning to face him and clap his shoulder.

Greg shrugged, smug. “Can we go home now?”

“And explain that how, exactly? It’s barely two o’clock.”

“My hot water heater broke? You’re helping me figure out how to fix it?”

“That’s an extremely incredible alibi, Greg.”

“You could leave first, for, like, a dentist appointment, and then I’ll leave, because you’ll be gone, and no one else will notice whether I’m there or not anyway? Please? I’ll give you, just, the highest imaginable praise in my exit interview.”

“Fine! Fine. God, I hate it when you break out the sad eyes.” Tom sighed, got out his phone to call a car.

* * *

A couple of baristas had just gotten off a shift at the coffeeshop and were walking down the block to get something to eat. A few paces ahead of them, two tall men folded themselves somewhat awkwardly into the back of an Escalade.

“Isn’t that those two guys from the shop?” the flannelled barista asked. The other nodded. “God, I hope they’re finally fucking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u all for reading and for chillin with me in the comments along the way! this somehow turned into the longest thing I've ever written lol and I really appreciate all your encouragement <3 I hope you enjoyed!!

**Author's Note:**

> I conduct most of my tomgreg tomfoolery on Tumblr at [@van1lla-v1lla1n](https://van1lla-v1lla1n.tumblr.com/), and I'm also on Twitter at [@van1lla_v1lla1n](https://twitter.com/van1lla_v1lla1n) :)) come say hiiiiiiii


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